


luck be a lady (tonight)

by botanyclub



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And plenty of fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, ecstatic to announce that i am indeed BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, escalating displays of affection in the name of good luck, gilbert is whipped from the jump and i make no apologies for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub
Summary: Gilbert Blythe is not superstitious, but he is a little stitious.akaFormer Calder-winner Gilbert Blythe is going through a massive slump during what should be a championship season for the Charlottetown Crowns. Obviously, the correct course of action would be to latch on to the first supposed good-luck charm that smacks him upside the head with a slate, right?
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix/Sebastian ''Bash'' Lacroix
Comments: 167
Kudos: 335





	1. of rituals and ultimatums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say my working knowledge of hockey is above-average, but it’s been a while since I’ve had to access that part of my brain. I'll always include a glossary at the end if I use a term that might be too in the weeds for the average person to know. Please excuse any mistakes and get ready to suspend A LOT of disbelief :)

Coach Gillis pulls Gilbert aside after practice and gives him an ultimatum: play better or die. 

. . . Gilbert’s paraphrasing, of course. Coach’s exact words were: “Blythe, I don’t know what’s going on in your life or where your head’s been at these past few weeks, but I’m starting to wonder if the best move for the team would be to designate you for assignment to make room for another player.” 

Which might as well be a death sentence for Gilbert, seeing as how they’re essentially relegating him to minor league hell. There’s no hesitation or empathy in Coach’s voice either, just an uncompromising competitive streak that does nothing to warm the already dead-cold office.

“I - what?” Gilbert splutters, rising out of his chair and onto his feet. He is on the taller side of average compared to other players in the league, but still feels pint-sized under the weight of Coach Gillis’ gaze. 

“You had to know this conversation was coming,” the older gentleman dead-pans, folding tough, leathered hands atop his wooden desk. They are the same hands that captained his team to two Stanley Cups wins in ‘86 and ‘87, and ones that are hoping to threepeat this year as head coach.

The Charlottetown Crowns have all the makings of a championship team; three strong lines and a rock in Moody McPherson behind net. Years of tanking and #1 overall draft picks enabled the Crowns to train up future cornerstones, taking in young guns while shaping them into the bedrock for a dynasty in the making. Gilbert, being last year’s Calder winner and a top five goal scorer in the league, is poised to be at the center of it all.

But Gilbert is also being blind-sided by this startling confrontation. 

“So I’ve had a couple of sub-par games,” he downplays, taking a seat in what is decidedly _not_ a moment of shame. He’s just tired from running drills, is all. “It’s not the end of the world and definitely shouldn’t be the thing that sends me back to the minors.” There is a plea in there, somewhere at the end.

Coach Gillis fixes him in a stare. “Your plus/minus differential is -10. You broke double digits and we’re not even a quarter of a way through the season.” 

Gilbert’s superior defense is that “plus/minus is a bullshit stat anyways” while knowing he’s in the wrong. It’s no secret that he has become somewhat of a black hole on ice, where all pucks go to die or (worse) get stolen away. Given his skills (or lack thereof), Gilbert’s not sure he could even make a goal on a breakaway if the posts were ten miles apart. The Crowns have been eeking out wins _in spite of_ him, instead of because. A total reversal of luck from last year’s breakout season.

The media is referring to this as Gilbert’s 'Pauper Season', which may very well stick if he continues to play at the level he’s playing. 

“You’re a good kid, Blythe. And I know there’s a lot of pressure riding on you to be the next Gretsky or what have you. But there comes a point in every player’s career where he either rises up to the challenge, or plays mediocre fourth line hockey until he can’t keep up with the younger models and retires.” It is, perhaps, the bleakest sentence Gilbert has ever heard in his life. 

Unceremoniously, he is kicked from the office to fully absorb the meaning of Coach’s words. Or take them seriously enough to kick whatever bad habits he’s developed to result in such a change. The ultimatum is supposed to light a fire under his ass, to motivate him to play better as if Gilbert isn’t already intensely aware of how much he sucks at all things hockey. But try as he might, the slump persists. 

The locker room is empty, save for Moody and Charlie who wait patiently for Gilbert to finish packing up his things. They have brunch plans after practice and won’t allow Gilbert’s piss-poor attitude to back out on their friend date.

“Stop calling it a friend date,” Charlie laments while running a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat because the left winger is a brute who doesn’t believe in showering before a game. This has been a ritual of his since peewee, but with maturity has not come the knowledge that dousing himself in Axe body spray is not a suitable substitute for hygiene. “It sounds so lame.”

Moody doubles down and disregards Charlie’s advice. “Friend date! Friend date! Friend date!” he chants, clearly excited for Meatloaf Mondays. The three of them head toward the back parking lot and pile into Moody’s car, a fancy Escalade he bought with his sizable signing bonus last year. Charlie calls shotgun, which leaves Gilbert to brood by himself in the back.

Neither Moody or Charlie have what anyone would qualify as “good” taste in music so the 20 minute drive downtown to Arquette’s is backtracked by unbearably slow folk ballads and EDM beats that nearly blow out Moody’s subwoofers. They argue back and forth over the AUX cord, trying to pull Gilbert in as a mediator to determine who has next song despite the obvious answer being “just switch on and off whose turn it is, you overgrown babies.” Gilbert normally has more patience than this, but he's on the verge of being DFA'd so now everyone else has to suffer. 

His snappy mood does not deter his two teammates from bickering all the way to the restaurant, pausing only to greet their waiter who shows them to their usual booth in the back. This spot was strategically chosen given its approximation to the bar and the row of TV monitors broadcasting all manner of sports. By now, it is second nature to tap the table counter twice before allowing themselves to sit, Moody and Gilbert on one side and Charlie on his own or up to two guests on the other.

From an outsider’s perspective, they probably look insane.

Arquette’s is just another one of their pre-game rituals on an already long list of customs, frequenting the establishment before home games despite being sick to death of eating fish sticks and poutine. The only bright side is that they've discovered just ordering the dishes is enough to appease the Hockey Gods, a risk they took before a throwaway game in April after already clinching a wildcard. 

Hockey players are, after all, a notoriously superstitious lot. 

“You should consider seeing a psychic,” Moody suggests, apropos to nothing after the food has arrived. Gilbert takes a crouton from the complimentary Caesar salad, popping the morsel into his mouth while raising an eyebrow in question. Charlie snorts in astonishment. 

“I’m serious, Gil. I heard about this guy in Alberta who randomly met a psychic at the grocery mart and went on like an _insane_ 10-game tear before getting called up by the Bruins.” 

“Are you talking about Burnsey?” Charlie asks, upper lip curling with skepticism. “Dude’s a total whackjob. Pretty sure he’s just spreading those rumors to psyche players out on ice.” 

“No way anyone’s copping to seeing a psychic on the off-chance it works to get in someone’s head. Also, I heard it from Karlsson who heard it from Magnussen so it must be legit. Swedes never lie,” Moody intones, somber as a funeral.

The only meaningful contribution Gilbert has comes in the form of a question, half a joke but taken seriously by the table. “I thought psychics read the future?”

Charlie shakes his head, suddenly an expert on the topic. “Nah dude, those are fortune tellers. Psychics commune with alternative planes of existence. They probably enlisted the spirit world to pull strings for Burnsey or some shit. Like Angels in the Outfield!” 

“You dumbass,” Moody mocks, “those are mediums.” 

The pair continue squabbling from there. Gilbert can barely keep up with conversation, devolving quickly by the second. It all sounds ridiculous to Gilbert, who is a creature of Fact and Science. Rarely does he believe in anything his eyes do not perceive. 

Delly once tells him over coloring that Gilbert lacks imagination, all because he points out that giraffes are not pink and purple in real life. Delphine stares at him with equal parts sympathy and exasperation, an expression he knows she’s picked up entirely from her mother. The phrase, though, is borrowed from her beloved kindergarten teacher and one Gilbert has heard quite often from Delly since. 

As if summoned, Bash texts him a reminder to pick up Delphine after school, as per his agreement on the Mondays and Thursdays that Gilbert is not out of town.

“Either way, Moody’s right. You need something to jump start your season. A good luck charm or seance? Maybe an exorcism to get rid of whatever demons are causing you to blow chunks every game?” 

Gilbert rolls his eyes, choking down the last of the poutine. He’d do just about anything to curry some favor from the Hockey Gods, but where would one even procure those services on such short notice? “Beautifully put, Sloane. I’ll pencil one down for tomorrow.”

He’s only mostly joking.

-

Bash gives him very specific instructions to park and grab Delphine “and not like some punk who honks from the driveway” since Gilbert is picking her for the first time and should familiarize himself with her teacher, Miss Anne.

“She’s got red hair and freckles and talks a lot with her hands - there’s no way you’ll miss her!” He says before hanging up the phone.

Gilbert begs to differ, staring around at the unbridled chaos of an elementary school during afternoon dismissals. There is a line of cars wrapped around the kiss and ride area, buses parked in no particular order out front, and about a million kids zooming back and forth with their exasperated parent in tow. He figures the front entrance is as good a place as any to start looking for Delphine and begins the trek through the absolute anarchy. 

He gets a few open-mouthed stares from some of the older kids who recognize him and head nods from parents who aren’t operating completely on autopilot. All in all, it is a much nicer experience than the drunken expletives that get yelled at him during games and at whichever bars Moody and Charlie manage to drag him out to. His fall from hockey stardom to Charlottetown pariah is well-documented and tragic. Gilbert spends most of his nights and weekends at home, entertaining Delly until even _she_ gets tired of him and opts for watching Paw Patrol quietly. 

Surprisingly, Bash turns out to be right (for once) when Gilbert’s eyes catch a glimpse of amber in the afternoon sunlight. He can only see her from behind, locks of auburn hair piled haphazardly in a bun and held in place with what appears to be a paintbrush. Even from a distance, he can make out a sprig of a flower tattoo peeking out from beneath the collar of her sundress, perfectly placed in the spot where the base of her neck meets her spine. She is addressing a group of students sitting criss-cross on the grass, one of which being Delphine who appears deeply invested in what’s being said.

Gilbert approaches, waving to catch Delly’s undivided attention, when the little boy next to her suddenly looks up and gasps.

“Miss Anne! Miss Anne! There’s a wasp in your hair!”

“What?”

 _Whack!_ The sound reverberates throughout the parking lot, loud enough to catch the attention of almost everybody in earshot. It must take Gilbert at least a minute to register what happened as he just stands there, stunned, with a phantom pain radiating from his left lobe and cheek. 

In her panic, Delly’s teacher had swung the slate she uses to keep track of the bus order behind her. Gilbert, in her cross hairs, unfortunately bears the brunt of the violence.

She casts wide, blue eyes in his direction. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up? Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?” Her single-minded panic is entirely dramatic, but cute.

Gilbert finds that he likes the way Miss Anne looks from the front as much as he did from behind. Soft and freckled in a way that reminds him of summer. 

He notes the crack he’s left on the surface of the slate. Impressive.

“No worries, I’m fine. I’ve dealt with much worse before.” Gilbert laughs in an attempt to lighten the mood, but his nervous tick in rubbing his neck backfires when it appears as though he is massaging the pain instead.

“Oh God, I’ve broken you, haven’t I? You don’t have to lie.” 

Delly races up to his side and grabs him by the hand. He finds it adorable the way all five of her fingers can barely wrap around the length of his thumb. “Uncle Gil, are you alright?” 

“Delphine, you know this man?” 

His niece nods enthusiastically, knocking loose a few curls. “He’s my Uncle Gil! He plays hockey and is supposed to pick me up on Mondays and Thursdays now.” Delphine says it like these are his only two personality traits. Which they very well may be. 

“Gilbert Blythe,” he offers his hand, the one not being currently held by Delly. 

There is a flash of recognition in her eyes, as if finally connecting the dots. Her grip is surprisingly firm despite her impossibly supple skin. “Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. I’m Delly’s teacher and also very embarrassed right now.” As if to prove a point, her blush grows even deeper, stretching down her neck and dusting the very tops of her collarbones. Alluring.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. If I can’t handle being whacked upside the head every now and again, I should probably quit playing hockey while I’m ahead.” Even if Gilbert is not technically ‘ahead’. Statistically, he’s played worse in his last six games than the entirety of his professional career combined. Gilbert pushes the thought aside; neither here nor there, and something he doesn’t want to dwell on in the face of a cute girl.

Anne’s only response to that is “What a strong chin you have!” which gives him pause. Gilbert can’t tell if it’s a genuine compliment or a terrible attempt at flirting, but either way he’s amused. 

“Do you say that to every strange man you smack with a slate, or do I just have a particularly good one?” 

As if on cue, because his hockey game sucks so it follows that his pull game must too, a car honks from the curb to remind them of their surroundings. Anne flinches, turning around to greet a Mrs. Johnson who is here to pick up Leslie while Gilbert is, again, met with the sight of her floral tattoo.

Privately, he wonders just how far down it extends . . .

“Anyways,” Anne says, interrupting his train of thought.

“Anyways,” Gilbert echoes, hoping to God his pupils aren’t blown when he looks at her.

“I’ll see you on Thursday, Mr. Blythe.” She grins and it’s warmth seeps deep into the marrow of his bones. She bends over slightly to meet Delly in the eye. “Goodbye, Delphine. Don’t forget you need to have your permission slip in by Friday.” 

Delly pinky promises and waves before she goes. “Bye Miss Anne!” his niece begins walking toward Gilbert’s car. 

Anne catches his eye one last time before they go, just as he is sliding his key into the ignition. “Good luck with your game tonight!” she calls, hands cupped to her face so her voice carries across the parking lot. She waves vigorously, hair escaping the confines of the paint brush that binds it. She looks luminous and bright, backlit with sunshine.

Gilbert laughs and salutes her before driving away. 

-

The air horns blow to indicate an end to the second period. The Crowns are up 3-1 over Toronto, a bitter division rival, and Gilbert has drawn the two penalties leading to the power plays that get them there.

“What’s gotten into you Blythe?” Billy Andrews claps him loudly on the shoulder as they pile into the locker room. “Have you finally learned how to play hockey again?” 

Billy is annoying and reeks of sweat and damp hockey gloves, but the words are enough to strike a chord in Gilbert’s gut. He doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything tremendously different on ice, but somehow the puck bounces seem to be going his way. He skates a bit faster and his perception is that much sharper. Gilbert may not be great, probably bordering more on mediocre, but it’s a positive sign that he’s at least a step above rock bottom.

Coach Gillis doesn’t say anything, but the gruff nod he extends Gilbert’s way before stepping into his office speaks volumes. 

He doesn’t have time to dwell upon his fortune before the third period starts. Racks up an assist to put a cap on the night. But somehow, Gilbert knows that something fundamentally has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> botany’s teeny-tiny hockey glossary + guide:  
>  **Calder Winner:** the hockey equivalent of rookie of the year.  
>  **plus/minus (+/-):** the difference between their team's total scoring versus their opponent's when the player is in the game  
>  **designate for assignment:** sending a player back to the minor leagues for the purposes of clearing up roster room. Realistically, this wouldn’t be an option because Gilbert would be claimed immediately on waivers (a round of dibs for the other teams which Gilbert has to clear/go unclaimed before he can be reassigned), but lalalalala pretend this is something he’s legitimately concerned about.  
> 
> 
> Um, hi. It is I, of the unnecessarily long author’s notes that substitute for meaningful human interaction bc maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s self-quarantine. This particular plot bunny has been with me for YEARS, but I figured Shirbert would be as good a pair as any to test the waters.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think :)
> 
> (btw i’m also on tumblr now @bbotanyclub)


	2. of butterflies and autographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m only writing this to fuel my anti-New England sports agenda. You have been warned.

Monday’s game turns out to be a fluke because Gilbert stinks again the next night, enough to warrant boos from the most inebriated of fans. They heckle him for his stickhandling and then move on to drunken jeers of “ _overrated_!” which, in retrospect, he’s not sure how loud they were actually being or if their taunts were being amplified by Gilbert’s own insecurities. But he figures it’s only a matter of time before the whole arena joins in. 

His lungs ache from the exhaustion of chasing after stolen pucks all game. It’s not so much being a failure on ice and the critical side-eye Coach Gillis turns on him as he’s coming out of the showers, but the inconsistency of his playing. How could Gilbert’s skills fluctuate so much from one day to the next? What the fuck gives? 

Gilbert peels out of the parking lot at break-neck speed, safely (or otherwise) putting as much distance between himself and the emptying crowd as possible. He’s irritated with himself and replaying his responses to the post-game interview in his head. The same variations of “if I just state well and keep my stick on the puck, I’ll eventually work myself out of this funk” that he’s not sure even _he_ believes anymore. 

The drive home goes by in a blur, preoccupied as he is with his own internal wallowing. Gilbert doesn’t even realize he’s made it back until he’s physically pulling into the driveway of the Blythe-LaCroix household, automatic porch lights turning on to signal his arrival. The LaCroixs hosted Gilbert throughout his first NHL season and despite no longer being a rookie and making enough money off of his signing bonus alone to afford a swanky highrise in downtown Charlottetown, Gilbert loves living with Bash and Mary and their little one, Delphine. It is his one refuge from the outside world, where he’s treated the same no matter what his stats are on ice. 

The smell of pot roast greets him before Gilbert is even fully past the door. “Honey, I’m home!” he calls as he hangs up his coat and car keys. 

The pitter-patter of footsteps bounding towards him, slight pause between each step because Delly is too small to take more than one stair at a time, is one of Gilbert’s most favorite sounds; right up there with slapshots, buzzer beaters, and _Gymnopédie No. 1._ The toddler appears, bright-faced, a moment later to welcome him in the hallway. 

“Uncle Gil! Uncle Gil!” 

“Hello to you, too.” He goes to squeeze her cheek affectionately, but misses. Delly is at a stage where she hates any and all physical affection, which was a total blow to his ego the day he got back from a road trip and she did not immediately launch her tiny body around his left leg in greeting. Delphine dodges his reach and grabs for his pointer finger instead, marching him straight to the dining room where Bash and Mary are still lounging with a plate of food left out for Gilbert. There is also, he notes, a paper gift bag waiting for him on the table beside the salt and pepper shakers.

Sparing him the trouble of asking who it’s from, Delphine pre-emptively lets him know that “It’s from Ms. Anne! To say sorry for hitting you with her blackboard!”

Delly’s demands for him to _“open it! Open it!”_ are drowned out by the sound of Bash’s uproarious laughter.

Mary peers at him from over the rim of her reading glasses, lips quirked upwards in a grin as well. “I’m sorry, _what_ did Ms. Anne do to Uncle Gil with her blackboard?” 

“She whacked him really hard Mommy!” Delphine chortles, hiding her smile behind two pudgy brown hands. She climbs atop one of the dining chairs like it’s a stage, dramatic as all five year olds are prone to being at that age. “It was so loud I thought Uncle Gil would have bleeded for sure! But he was fine and they laughed and Uncle Gil gave Ms. Anne his Eyes!” 

“My eyes?” Gilbert raises an eyebrow, digging into his plate of pot roast and spinach. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s when you do that squishy thing with your eyes because you think I’m being cute or when Mommy lets you eat the crust but not the pie. You gave Ms. Anne your Eyes too, I saw it! _I saw it_!!!” 

Bash nearly chokes on his soup, far too amused for what the situation demands. “You gave my daughter’s kindergarten teacher the Eyes, huh?” he asks with an accusatory stare.

“I did not!” Gilbert protests, but not whole-heartedly. He can't deny that Ms. Anne _is_ rather cute.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Delly challenges him boldly, hands on her hips like she’s ready to post up. She looms menacingly over her uncle at the table, casting a longer shadow than her tiny body would suggest. 

“Why don’t you open your present, Gilbert?” Mary says placidly to diffuse the situation. All of the fight leaves Delly like air from a balloon and is immediately replaced with excitement instead.

He grabs the tiny bag and diligently pulls out the yellow tissue paper slowly, plucks out a card that reads _Sorry!!!! Delly thinks you probably need “eleven and seventy stitches” for the gaping flesh wound I’ve given you. So while this isn’t medical-grade tape, I figured it would be the next best thing!_

“What’d you get? What’d you get?” Delly tries to peer over his shoulder at the card. 

Gilbert turns to show her the wheel of pitch-black hockey stick tape. There is even a thoughtful butterfly sticker to mark the edge of the roll, so Gilbert doesn’t have to spend twenty minutes trying to feel for the undetectable raised bump with his desensitized fingertip. 

“No fair!” the toddler yells. “Ms. Anne only gives butterflies if you’ve been especially good!” 

This only sends Bash off the deep-end again. “Have you, Blythe? Been an extra good boy?” The words barely come out coherent given the absurdity of his laughter.

He wants to tell his older brother to fuck off, but (unluckily for Gilbert) there are small children present.

-

Thursday’s practice is shaky, at best. He feels a little off-balance all throughout conditioning and shooting drills don’t go as well as he’d hoped. Gilbert’s teammates (barring Billy) are much too supportive to give him any grief or even make reference to his drastic regression in output. The most anyone says is, “everyone goes through a slump every now and again.” But unspoken is the knowledge that Gilbert’s has lasted much longer than usual and the only reason he’s being given this much leeway is on account of the fact that his skills haven’t suffered. Gilbert is just as fast, just as nimble, and just as smart on the ice. His problem lies in unfortunate bounces off the sides or unmitigated miracle plays from the opposition, uncalled penalties and a game of inches from the blueline. It sounds like an excuse, in both his head and aloud, but ultimately what Gilbert’s problem is is with the concept of luck itself. 

Just as he’s going for the slapshot against Moody, his trusty stick shatters in half upon contact.

“Great,” he mutters, trying to shake out the tingles from his hands. “Just awesome. I absolutely love this for me.” 

“Alright?” Moody calls, lifting up his mask.

Gilbert waves off his concern and bends down to retrieve the broken remnants of his stick. He flags an assistant coach to indicate that he needs to go retrieve another one, skates off to the locker room with half an hour left of practice. Gilbert wants to make the most of this time before the game later tonight, feeling more and more like the turning point of Coach Gillis’ ultimatum. If he doesn’t get it together by then, he may not play long enough to see the light of day tomorrow. But not by Coach Gillis’ hand, which might actually be a mercy; even the Charlottetown Faithful will have no choice but to turn on him if Gilbert costs them the game against the Bruins. 

He shuffles into the locker room and takes a second stick from the rack. Rather than rooting around the black hole that is his practice bag for his old tape, Gilbert pulls Anne's more conveniently located new one from the front pocket of his coat, thankful he remembered to grab it on his way out the door. He won’t admit it to Bash, but Gilbert does carefully peel off the butterfly sticker so as to preserve its appearance and carefully lines it up on his helmet in the space between his numbers. He then gets to work on taping up his stick and hits the ice in record time, strangely energized and like a crackle of electricity is running through his veins. 

He doesn’t realize it immediately during 1-on-1’s with Charlie, who is typically slower and more susceptible to feints from his left. Is it only twenty minutes later during the final run, when he bodies Billy out of the way and sneaks a second goal past Moody, that Gilbert looks down to his hands and the stick gripped between it, to the layers of tape bound tightly around, and suddenly something in the back of his brain clicks. 

Flashbacks to Monday’s game and the stark contrast to Tuesday, to a certain parking lot with a certain red-headed girl, the feeling of slate crashing sharp against his cheek. A butterfly sticker between the numbers 7 and 3.

_It must be Anne._

_It has to be Anne._

-

As he is riding the high from a strong ending to practice while on his way to pick up Delly from school, Gilbert wonders upon the notion of a good luck charm and the implications of having one that also doubles as an autonomous human being. Surely he’s insane and it’s a by-product of sheer desperation. More than likely, Gilbert is grasping at straws and determined to latch onto even the feeblest sign of hope, but something in him knows changing the tide of his good future must begin and end with Anne. 

How does one even broach this outrageous topic of conversation? 

Gilbert practices his approach in the rear-view mirror of his car. “Hello? Remember me? You smacked me over the head with your slate the other day and miraculously I remembered how to play hockey again. If it’s not too much to ask, would you mind doing it once more but only harder this time - just to see if it prolongs the effects of your good luck?” The internal logic of this transference is shaky at best. Does it only work if Anne actually attacks him with her slate? Or would any form of contact be enough to trigger the transaction? 

“Maybe she’s Irish and all it takes is a kiss? Or maybe I’m a nutjob who needs to leave this poor girl alone.” 

His options are this: either Gilbert saves his career by propositioning an unsuspecting kindergarten teacher who is otherwise just his type, or risks being wrong and forever holding his peace playing minor league hockey. It’s almost a no-brainer if his aversion toward embarrassment wasn’t so astronomically high. Gilbert very rarely takes a chance on anything he isn’t sure of, the only exception to his fear being his driving ambition to be the best.

So he makes up his mind. Convinces himself it wouldn’t hurt just to ask.

“Well well well,” Anne chants when she sees him approaching, “look who’s back to the scene of the crime.”

“Last time I checked, I was the victim in this relationship?” 

“You’re absolutely correct,” she nods, “but it felt like the right thing to say at the time.”

Gilbert watches, entranced, as Anne lets down her hair from its bun, waves of red and copper coalescing around the delicate slope of her shoulders. The subtle smell of pomegranate and musk. 

“Thank you for your gift, by the way.” 

“Oh it’s the very least I could, considering I almost gave you head trauma.” 

“Almost?” he flirts, unabashedly so. Gilbert is slightly out of practice, doing this so infrequently throughout the years. It is never done with the goal of going home with a girl, but only when he’s sure there is some hope for a shared future. Anne is a special case that he’s not sure how to approach and so defaults to flirting because it has resulted in the longest-term results, thus far. 

Not to say that Gilbert is exactly experienced in the realm of women and dating. All of his ill-fated relationships (few and far between as they were) ended because Gilbert accidentally let them fall by the wayside, too preoccupied with hockey and hanging out with the boys. Although no one could ever accuse him of being mean, it doesn’t preclude Gilbert from being unintentionally cruel. He was also still a child then, play-acting at being a man. 

They laugh and joke for a little bit while Delly chats animatedly with her friend from class. Gilbert tries to be conscious of whether or not he’s giving Anne the Eyes, but is too wrapped up in her laughter to pay it much mind. And even if he was, would it be the end of the world? Gilbert’s young and single and he finds her incredibly charming. But he also recognizes that Anne is different in that he likes her, but he’s also approaching her with ulterior motives in mind. 

“Are you a big hockey fan at all?” is his smooth attempt at broaching the topic. 

“I’m Canadian, aren’t I?”

She’s got him there, so he clarifies: “I meant, do you root for the Crowns?”

Anne’s got a smile on her face, mysterious like she’s privy to some secret that he’ll never know. “I wouldn’t say that I root against them,” is her vague, unhelpful answer. 

Gilbert is just about to pluck up the courage to ask her his favor when Anne remarks, “I almost hate to ask, but my boyfriend is actually a big fan of yours. Would you mind signing an autograph for him?”

The depth to which his heart drops is not proportional to the length of time he’s known her. He shouldn’t be feeling so crestfallen over a practical stranger having a boyfriend.

“Sure thing,” Gilbert smiles, even though it feels incredibly forced. A boyfriend complicates things, both in terms of putting the moves on Anne and having her put the moves on him in turn. A total wrench in the plan. “What did you want me to sign?” 

“For Roy,” she says, tearing off a slip of paper from a notebook. He notes that she still carries around the cracked slate with her in hand. “His name is Roy.” 

_To Roy, Fuck Off._

_Best, Gilbert._

Go Crowns! is what he actually ends up writing. 

But just know that it was a close call.

A close call, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, I'm doing this whacky thing where I force myself to write and edit sparingly and just have a good time with this overall. How long this will last before I cave and go back? Remains to be seen. 
> 
> Hope you're all well. Take care of yourselves, please.


	3. off kisses and kit's

“So how long have two been dating?” Gilbert asks, handing off the slip of paper faster than if it were literally on fire. While Delly is still preoccupied with her friend discussing the merits of crunchy vs. smooth peanut butter and j’s, he figures he has the time to do some light reconnaissance work with Anne. Build rapport so he can at least lay down the groundwork for a future proposition. It helps that Gilbert genuinely _likes_ spending time with Anne, watching her cupid’s bow and the guileless way she grins, syrupy sweet like margarita mix. 

“We’re not dating right now,” Anne clarifies and suddenly, it’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He scrutinizes her face carefully for any signs of regret, of love enduring but gone unrequited, but Anne is as placid as ever. Perhaps even more so than usual. “Roy’s in New York on a temporary gig. Remains to be seen if we’ll get back together when he returns.”

“Oh?” Gilbert says, trying to contain the hopeful note in his voice. “What’s the hang-up?” To see if he can twist the knife in any deeper. He watches Anne wave off a few of her students, the parking lot and school grounds emptying out quickly for the day. The handful of other teachers saddled with after school duties are heading back to their classrooms to wrap up and go home, but cast curious glances over at the way Gilbert towers over their colleague. He startles, not realizing how close he had been pulled into Anne’s orbit; plays it off and tries to take an inconspicuous step back. Already, it feels like too much distance between them.

But for whatever space he creates, infinitesimal as it is, Anne closes it back up, leaning in conspiratorially. “We’ve been off for longer than we were ever on. Because he’s much too stiff and boring to put up with my flights of fancy.”

“Then why consider going back at all?” Gilbert’s definitely prying now and being none too subtle about it either. Anne doesn’t seem to mind. Tucks a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear, contemplative. 

“Roy is very . . . handsome.” 

“Just handsome?” 

She sighs dreamily. “Like a hero out of a fairytale! Tall and dark to boot!” 

Vaguely, Gilbert wonders if they look alike at all. If he could just as easily become Anne’s childhood ideal. He was plenty tall, with dark and curly hair. Handsome, too, if Delly’s playdates are to be believed. 

The little girl in question meanders her way over soon enough, bored of stalling to give her uncle extra time to moon over Miss Anne. “I’m ready to go now,” she announces to Gilbert, and looks up at her teacher. “Mom and Daddy are playing rock paper scissors to see who’s going to chap-pepperoni me on our field trip next week!”

“As long as you have your permission slip in by tomorrow,” Anne sing-songs, an indulgent smile directed at her favorite pupil, who huffs in irritation. 

“I pinky-promised you already!” But commitments to Delly go in one ear and out the other; she has the retention rate of wax paper without any self-awareness. Anne looks to Gilbert, as if to ask him to remind Bash and Mary when they get back. He likes that they’re already communicating without words and nods graciously in response. 

Delly swings off her backpack and hands it over to GIlbert, who reflexively takes it, thus establishing himself as her pack mule forever. She leads the way to his car again without looking back, walking with all of the confidence of one who wears the pants in the relationship. He knows he can’t linger any longer given that Delly is about to start crossing, so waves goodbye to Anne with an air of wistfulness that’s almost embarrassing. He counts the days in his head (four) until they meet again.

Before he goes, Anne rifles through the front pocket of her denim overall dress, extracts from its depth one silver Hersey kiss. “Something sweet for the road,” she presses it into his palm, fingers lingering for a second before sliding apart. Gilbert swears the heat of it could melt the chocolate treat entirely. 

He is dazed the entire car ride home despite Delly’s best attempts at maintaining conversation, kiss burning a hole through the shirt pocket directly over his heart.

-

Right before the game, as players start emptying out of the locker room for warm-ups and without any eyes on him to judge the reverent way Gilbert peels away the aluminum foil, slides the chocolate in between his lips; holds it in his mouth and lets the flavor coat his tongue, morsel softening into liquid, into nothing. Licks away any remnants and swallows, warming down his throat. His fingers search for the ridges of the butterfly sticker between the numbers on his helmet and strokes it, softly back and forth and feeling the thrum of _something_ building quickly in his veins. Before Gilbert hits the ice, a freshly-taped stick gripped firmly in hand. Forgoes all of his usual rituals in favor of Anne.

-

_Final score: 5-1 Crowns._

-

They drag him out to a bar afterwards because they have a blissful two days off. Coach Gillis is so pleased at the routing, he goes so far as to cancel morning practice as well. The other guys are headed to Hardy’s and Gilbert is inclined to join for team solidarity, but hates the crowds that Hardy’s attracts and the expectation they place on unattached players going home with a girl. So Moody and Charlie compromise and decide on Kit’s instead, because at least there they can talk and Gilbert can hear the sound of his own thoughts.

Kit’s is not quite a hole in the wall frequented by a small subsection of Queens’ students who listen to Sufjan Stevens and younger professionals trying to avoid the typical bar scene in Charlottetown. Charlie discovered it while on a failed Tinder date with a girl who found his lack of interest in the prison-industrial complex appalling. Charlie shrugged and wished her well at the end of it, pleased all the same to get a sweet new weekend spot from the deal. All three of them enjoy the more relaxed atmosphere, the unpretentiousness of reasonably-priced drinks and sticky laminate floors. 

“Fuck the Bruins!” Charlie cheers, raising his pint to the sky. Gilbert and Moody follow suit, clinking classes and watching foam spill over and drip its way down the brim. He wipes his hand on the sides of his jeans, chugs a mouthful in giddy delight. It’s been a while since he’s felt allowed to celebrate a win, especially when for so long he was often a hindrance in his team’s path towards one. But Gilbert tallied _a_ _goal_ after an exceptionally long drought tonight, nevermind the fact that it was a cushion score up 4-1 to cap off the night rather than a lead-changer in the heat of the battle. Nevertheless, it is progress and Gilbert wants to celebrate that for what it is.

Charlie claps him heartily on the shoulder. “Did you finally get that exorcism or what?” 

He debates revealing his hand, not wanting to seem as gullible as Moody who believes in the power of psychics, but refusing to kowtow to Charlie and his fear of endless ribbing if he tells. Still, Gilbert feels the need to talk about his theory outloud, like it becomes more legitimate the more he speaks of it to others. A lie told a thousand times is just as good as the truth. 

“Would you believe that I’ve found a good luck charm?” he proffers, not daring to look at either friend in the face. 

“What is it?” Moody asks, excited like a puppy. 

“That dumb butterfly sticker you wear on your helmet now?” Charlie scoffs.

“It’s not dumb,” Gilbert feels defensive. “And sort-of. It’s more where I got it.”

“From a psychic?” 

“From a girl.” He clears his throat, wondering if this was a mistake after all. He’s starting to waver in his conviction to confess. “Delly’s kindergarten teacher, actually.”

Charlie snorts. “Is this like a Bull Durham thing? ‘You slept with her and now you’re playing big leagues’ situation?”

“You slept with your niece’s kindergarten teacher?” Moody is absolutely scandalized. 

“I didn’t sleep with her!” 

“But you want to,” the tall defensemen clocks Gilbert appropriately. 

“I want to do a lot of things with Anne. Not just sex.” 

Moody grins. “So her name is Anne!” 

“The point is: ever since I met her and every time we’ve interacted, physical or otherwise -"

“Physical!” Charlie wolf-whistles and Moody chimes in.

“ - it’s like I’m becoming more of my old self again.”

“There’s a but in there somewhere.”

“There isn’t a but . . . except”

“Except is ‘but’-adjacent, you dick!”

“Except,” Gilbert soldiers on, “I like her and I don’t want to start dating her on false pretenses.” 

“What’s false about it? You like her and she so happens to bring you good luck on the ice. It’s a win-win-win situation.” 

“Win-win-win?”

Charlie ticks them off on his fingers. “You, her, and our Stanley Cup chances.” 

“She also has a boyfriend, kind of”

“Kind of?” Moody is confused.

“It’s long-distance. They’re on a break. She’s Delly’s _teacher_. I don’t know dude, everything about this is unnecessarily complicated.” 

“Only because you’re the one making it complicated.”

“Just tell her you like her,” says their goalie, ever the romantic. 

Charlie is the opposite. “Or lead with the truth - something about how her wacky pheromones makes you play better hockey. Tell her that boning you is for the greater good, if you think about it carefully.”

“Fuck you, Sloane. I’m not framing it like that. And we don’t _have_ to bone. She just needs to . . . touch me.”

“Touch you _where_?” he waggles his eyebrows

Gilbert doesn’t deign to give the tall defenseman a response while Moody, a traitor, returns Charlie’s hanging high-five.

The conversation meaders away the topic of Anne, thank God, because even Charlie knows the limits of Gilbert’s strict no-embarrassment policy. So instead, they get sloshed off a shot and some beers, reliving moments from the game tonight up to and including all the blatant instances of embellishment. Moody does an awful impression of Kubler, with his hook-nose and high-pitched whine, but Gilbert is drunk enough that it’s uproariously funny and the three of them bang the table with their empty mugs to the chagrin of those around them. In good spirits, Gilbert grabs the glasses and heads over to the bar for refills, promising the next two rounds in celebration of his goal. Between the three of them, they should probably be cut off soon before things get too far out of hand and Moody starts lamenting about how many months it's been since he’s even _talked_ to a girl.

Gilbert is waiting for his drinks when a streak of red appears from over his shoulder, hands with familiar fingers waving to get the bartender’s attention. His eyesight follows the ends of it up a bare, freckled arm, over collarbone and décolletage, before settling on a lightly made-up face, eyelashes longer and darker than he’s used to and a hint of red spread thin across a pair of very kissable lips. He thinks he might be too drunk, to imagine her here of all places, a figment so much like a dream but realized and right beside him.

“Three vodka sodas and a glass of water, please!” His figment even sounds like Anne, too. 

Gilbert shoulders his way past another girl at the bar to fully turn and face this red-headed apparition. “Miss Anne?” he asks, feeling vaguely dumb referring to her by her alias at school when they’re no more than two years apart and he calls her ‘Anne’ inside his head and to others aloud indiscriminately. Thirsty Thursdays at Kit’s always guarantees a crowd, but not so large that he has to shout over the masses. Anne recognizes him soon enough, eyes bright when they connect. A grin curls wide across her face, showcasing a particularly enticing pair of dimples.

“Mr. Blythe?” 

He shakes his head. “Just Gilbert is fine.” 

“It’s good to see you again so soon, Just Gilbert. Between us, you may refer to me as Valiant Anne.” She bows a little off balance, a bit tipsy herself. Her hair swoops down and back up again in motion with her body, cascading in waves that smell like pomegranate and musk.

“Do you come here often?” It sounds like a line, but Gilbert is genuinely curious. He certainly would have remembered happening upon someone like Anne, spending an entire night trying to work up the nerve to buy her a drink. The way Anne’s blue satin cami drapes across her neckline is absolutely criminal and criminally distracting at best. 

“I don’t _go out_ often, but my friend Ruby’s heartbroken and in desperate need of a distraction. The other girls are busy plying her with alcohol while I’m here to reprise my role as designated driver.”

The bartender sets down both sets of drinks, which Gilbert pays for before Anne can protest. He throws down a $50 bill and loops thumbs and fingers through the handles of his mugs. “Tell Ruby that whoever he is, he probably doesn’t deserve her. But if you’re looking for a distraction, me and my buddies are posted up in a corner booth. I would like it if you joined me - _and us_. I would like it if you joined us. With the other girls, of course. Plenty of room for everybody.” It was almost smooth, until Gilbert got too excited by the prospect of Anne sidled up next to him in a booth. 

She smiles, almost fondly. “Thanks for the drinks Just Gilbert. I’ll bring it up with my friends.”

“Looking forward to seeing you again, Valiant Anne.” 

And part ways, for now.

-

Anne does take him up on his offer, twenty minutes later after wandering around without a table in sight and Ruby complaining about her heels being too high. They appear from the crowd in a whirlwind of perfume and strappy outfits, Anne introducing her friends one by one to a table of boys awe-struck that women this pretty could really exist. 

The tallest of the group is Jane, brown-haired and vaguely familiar before she declares her unfortunate relation to Billy Andrews on their team. “Don’t worry,” she assures them. “I’m not at all like my brother. If anything, I'm worse." Which brings them to Diana, who links arms with Anne, brown eyes sweeping over the table as if memorizing a crime scene. She has a smile that hints at still waters running deep. Finally comes Ruby, the woman of the hour, dolled-up and glamorous and looking like the farthest thing from heartbroken. She turns out to be Ruby Gillis, the apple of Coach’s eye, and this revelation is the reason why Moody visibly deflates like a balloon.

“Which just leaves me, I guess. Anne,” his redhead finishes without as much panache for herself. 

“Anne is Delly’s kindergarten teacher,” Gilbert explains, for everyone else’s benefit, but as a pointed threat to be cool to his friends.

Immediately forgetting himself, Moody exclaims: “Speak of the devil! We were actually just talking about you!” 

Diana raises an eyebrow, almost protective when she says “Oh?”

“I just was just telling them about how I ran into you at the bar,” Gilbert explains, without missing a beat. He’s spent so many years in minors making up for Moody’s blunders, it’s practically second-nature. “And how the first time we met, you nearly knocked me out with a slate.”

Ruby must be the Moody of her group, because she also exclaims, “So _this_ is the guy you were telling us about, Anne?”

He’s pleased to know she’s talked about him with her friends. Especially enjoys the shade of pink she is steadily becoming. 

“Gilbert Blythe,” he mercifully puts Anne out of her misery and points to the two guys on his right. “This is Charlie Sloan and Moody MacPherson. I promise we’re much more charming than this usually, but we’ve gotten a bit of a headstart with drinking so you must excuse our manners.” The three of them scoot over to make room for the girls, which is a tight fit as it is and, as luck would have it, Anne ends up curled up right beside him. 

Everyone is just acceptably drunk enough to move past any awkward Getting To Know You periods, plus shitting on Billy Andrews is evergreen and fertile breeding grounds when it comes to establishing friendships. Jane leads the charge and Charlie enthusiastically follows suit, the two of them riffing while Moody listens and laughs. Ruby gets halfway through her third vodka soda before tears start springing from her big baby blues, running to the bathroom with Diana hot in pursuit. She waves off Anne and Jane’s attempts to leave as well, citing how small the stalls are as it is, and promises to keep them on standby in case Ruby really blows a gasket.

“What was that?” Gilbert asks in a low tone against Anne’s ear, arm slung casually in the space above her shoulders. There’s more room in the booth with two fewer bodies, but Anne sits back down as close to Gilbert as ever. Sometimes, his fingers twitch and accidentally brush against skin, the left strap of her top, and a constellation of freckles. He puts back another drink to quench a thirst that has only magnified in her presence, slowly tipping himself toward the danger zone of inebriation, where Gilbert loses control of all his tightly-reigned inhibitions. 

“Another failed talking stage,” Anne whispers, shaking her head in disbelief. The swish of her hair brushes gently against his forearm, so Gilbert scrambles to chug the rest of Moody’s forsaken beer. “For all my theatrics, Ruby is the most melodramatic of us all.” 

“That feels like a proportionate response,” he reasons. “I hate when things don’t go my way.”

Anne swivels slightly to face him, near enough to feel the passing flutter of her lashes. “You can’t always get what you want,” she lectures, like he’s one of her students. Gilbert certainly _feels_ like it, tempted to pull her pigtails so she pays attention to nobody else.

Gilbert fists his hands in the air, to prevent from doing something dumb. “My competitive streak says otherwise.” And noisily clears his throat.

“And when you’re not playing hockey? What is it that you want?” 

Perhaps he’s imagining the suggestion in her voice? Or the way he’s drunk enough to see two of Anne with twin expressions of mischief in their eyes. She only had one drink, hours ago, but must not have sobered quite yet. Otherwise, he can’t explain the way she’s leaning closer, like earlier this afternoon.

“I want . . . to test a theory.” 

His answer must shock her, because she barks out a laugh. Pulls back to meet his stare, amusement rather than alcohol coloring the high points of her cheek. “Are you a man of science as well, Mr. Blythe?” Her tone is playful and bright. “Well, do share with the class. What is this theory you’re so curious to test out?” 

It’s not quite permission, but Gilbert treats it as such. Swings the arm that rests on the seat to gently cup the side of her face, curling her in closer while his fingers brush back strands of her hair. His grip is steady but by no means firm, loose enough to slip from if Anne doesn’t want what’s coming next. Their breaths commingle with so little space in between. Gilbert leans in slowly, too uncoordinated to swoop in and _devour_ , merely touches lips without taking it any further. He can almost taste the lipgloss off of her perfect cupid’s bow. Anne puckers and it is enough to spur him on.

Whispers “If you are really Lady Luck” before enthusiastically diving in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a non-update before I decided fuck it, they'll kiss. 
> 
> Sorry the delay, y'all. At any given time, I have like seven different AU's bouncing around in my head and not enough self-control to stop fantasizing over every single one of them. Feel free to yell at me in a comment and/or confess your undying love for me before it's too late and whatever else 2020 has to offer finally gets me.
> 
> Hope you're all thriving!


	4. of field trips and gray areas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very dialogue-heavy chapter, but some important conversations to be had and boundaries to be set. 

Anne is a great kisser. 

Phenomenal, even, considering Gilbert is halfway pissed and far from holding his own in this makeout session despite the enthusiasm with which he dove in earlier. His tongue is uncoordinated and sloppy trying to taste as much of Anne as possible: the mint julep she had to wash down a handful of bar nuts, a suggestion of rosemary that’s entirely her own. Gilbert feels fifteen again and kissing a girl for the very first time, inexperienced but enthusiastic like the qualifications section of his resume.

Anne returns his gusto in a way that is much more refined, indicative of the fact that she’s no longer a horny teenager and that Gilbert is _way_ too invested in everything that’s going on; subconsciously catalogues her every sound like it’s going to be the compilation track playing as they lower him into the ground, six feet under because Anne’s going to kill him at this rate. She is _everywhere_ and yet it still isn’t enough. 

Her fingers twine into a handful of curls, maneuvering his lips so that they’re better slotted against her own. Switches between probing licks and powerful strokes, intoxicating to the point that Gilbert can barely keep up, just along for the ride until Anne grants him reprieve and they both come up for air. 

Gilbert likes the way she looks when she’s been thoroughly kissed, red-faced and panting and the prettiest she’s ever been. The prettiest he’s ever seen. And he tells her as much, although Gilbert barely registers what he’s saying along with the other half-coherent thoughts that flip through his deoxygenated brain. The thesis of it being: “That was good . . . you’re good . . . that was . . .” 

“Good enough to buy a lottery ticket?” she giggles, retreating from lips that are already leaning back in. Anne has to put a hand to his chest to keep him from sealing the deal. 

Gilbert clears his throat, a little bit embarrassed and wholly disappointed at the rejection. Replies, “I’d say so” which is dumb, because he just did. 

All around them, Kit’s rages on, just like any other night—music bumping to the heartbeats of shifting tides of bodies, clouds of perfume, dim lighting, and the sloshing of PBRs—and yet something feels different in some foreign, intangible way. Like the universe has tilted by some imperceptible degree.

Gilbert isn’t normally Mr. Suave, or has ever been considered such in his entire life; passably smooth at his best and borderline bumbling when that fails. But even while drunk, Gilbert knows that he has better game than this. Can more fittingly play the part of the homme fatale rather than just coasting on the fact that he is a handsome hockey player who has never had to pay attention to how cornily his lines land. But whatever chemistry he feels must be a two-way street considering how Anne is sidled up next to him, still recovering from their kiss, and peering at Gilbert with both amusement and something else in her eyes.

She murmurs in his ear, “Truthfully, as much I like you, that probably shouldn’t happen again.” 

That something else is an apology and the world around him shatters.

“Why not?” Gilbert cries, devastation on par with a kid being denied cookies before dinner. A proportional response considering she tastes like his favorite dessert. 

Anne thinks his unabashed panic is cute, but schools her expression into one of resolve. “Your niece is my student. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s not like we’re related.”

“But you think of each other as family.” Anne dares him to challenge her on this point, knowing full well he cannot. “And you both live under one roof. Ethically, it’s a gray area for me.” 

To a certain extent, Gilbert can understand her position, but wracks his brain for any loopholes or weaknesses all the same. “What about after she graduates? Moves onto the first grade?”

“Gilbert, that’s more than half the school year away.”

“Hypothetically speaking.” 

Anne purses her lips, perfectly puckered and pink. He wants to kiss them again, but knows better than to push whatever luck he’s generated thus far. “Hypothetically speaking . . . I guess it would be alright. If in seven months, you still want to date me, or rather just kiss me, or hook up, or–”

It is Anne’s turn to fumble, trying to put a name to Gilbert’s intentions. The most correct answer would be all of the above, but he goes for earnesty instead, figuring it would appeal to Anne's more romantic sensibilities. “Definitely date. I want us to date. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t.” 

She blushes, evidently pleased. “And here I thought you were testing out a hypothesis.” 

“A theory, actually. I’ve already gathered evidence in support.”

“Of me being Lady Luck?” Anne laughs like the notion is preposterous, just a funny little line he spins to all the girls he meets and makes out with in bars. Except he doesn’t know how to convey the singularity of her existence, of this one night in Kit’s.

Gilbert doesn’t get the chance to before Jane waves quickly to catch Anne’s undivided attention. Up until this moment, the rest of the booth had fallen to the edge of his awareness, but comes back in a rush and in startling HD. From across the table, Moody and Charlie exchange looks of smug satisfaction, probably having watched him shoot his puck and celebrate, only to hit the crossbar in the end. 

“We gotta go now,” the brunette announces loudly, stretching out her limbs to their full, intimidating height. “Diana just texted about our ride being outside. Apparently, Ruby’s having a breakdown and it’s probably best to head home.” 

Jane turns to face the rest of the group with a syrupy grin and salute. “It was nice meeting you boys. Perhaps not all hockey players are neanderthals after all.” 

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Charlie jokes and waves her off jovially.

Anne follows soon after to say her goodbyes, the eb of her body heat leaving Gilbert empty and apprehensive.

“Truce?” he calls before she turns to leave, one palm spread and reaching out to her from across the way. 

“What?”

He motions her closer, which she suspiciously complies. “I’m calling for a truce since I want us to date but you want to keep your job.”

She laughs at his boldness, unerring in the face of the extra shot he took earlier. “What are you on about now?”

He reaches for her hand, soft and warm gripped tightly between his own. Slips his number and encloses it between her fingers and retreats. “There aren’t any rules that say we can’t be friends, right?” 

The question lingers between them, hopeful and suggestive.

“No,” a cheshire grin unfurls wide across her lips. “I suppose not,” Anne says and disappears completely into the crowd.

It takes all of five seconds before the boys erupt into cheers, clapping down on Gilbert’s back like he’s scored the game-winning goal. Charlie whoops like it’s going out of style while Moody, more subtle comments on how cozy they looked together. The rest of the night they spend commiserating over the fact that Gilbert kissed Anne but has a free weekend without practice, games, or avenues in which to dispense his build-up of good fortune. Aloud, Gilbert wonders if this is something he is able to bottle up and save for a rainy day, or if it is a general luck that dissipates over time. 

Regardless, he buys a lottery ticket on his way home, just in case. 

-

Friday morning dawns bright and early and despite his hangover and body’s resistance to getting up, Gilbert still rises with the sun for his daily workout session. His luck may come and go in the form of Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, but conditioning is forever and so he remains rigid in this routine, throws on a pair of shorts and heads down to the basement after brushing his teeth. Bash’s home gym goes largely ignored ever since Delly was born and has since been transformed into a space for Gilbert to work off his frustrations, mostly after home games as punishment for yet another poor performance. But despite this reminder of his failures, Gilbert feels incredibly at peace this morning, one with the world and all that other good stuff.

He starts with light stretches and works his way to strength exercises, floorwork and sit-ups and then resting for five; gets halfway through push-ups when Gilbert hears the tell-tale sign footsteps running giddily down the stairs. Tiny brown toes scuttle in and out of his view, disappearing behind him as his intruder climbs unceremoniously onto his back. Her arms are secured safely around his neck as she tells him “Good morning!”

Gilbert grunts in response, the extra pounds difficult to carry as he is further along in his set. Delphine lays still though, conditioned to stop wiggling if she wants him to last, she being the glorified gym equipment to Gilbert’s economical joyride. 

“Mommy and Mr. Dad asked me to ask you if you could chap-pepperoni my field trip to the zoo next week since you’re going to be home and because you love me so much.”

He finishes his push-up and planks momentarily in the air, running through a mental checklist of schedules up ahead. “I have an away game next week,” he points out to Delly weakly and out of breath.

Her grip on him tightens, as if she could trap Gilbert from leaving entirely. “But the field trip is on Friday! And Mr. Dad can’t go anymore because he has a busy-ness trip, too!” Delphine is fixing herself up to cry, expressive brown eyes welling up with crocodile tears that leak three at a time. He motions for her to dismount as Gilbert pulls himself into a criss-cross applesauce position. 

“Is it a requirement that you bring a chaperone?” he asks, wiping away the waterworks from her baby, smooth cheek. Delphine is still pajama-clad with the remnants of sand in her eyes, meaning she ran to him in the basement as soon as she woke up. Probably fell asleep plotting to ambush Gilbert in the morning.

“No, but I already told Miss Anne that I would and I don’t want to be a liar!” The sniffles start up and he is perhaps a sentence away from an absolute tantrum. 

The mention of Anne gives Gilbert pause, if only briefly and instinctually, before the logical side of his brain kicks in and recognizes that his away game is on Thursday. There’s no way he’d make it back on time if he flew out with the rest of the team the next morning. Not unless he switched flights and left immediately after the game, caught a couple hours of sleep and . . .

And nothing. Anne and him are friends, for now. And Gilbert doesn’t know how she would feel about him tagging along to Delly’s field trip with no way of asking because she hasn’t texted him back. But while Anne doesn’t seem the type to follow the old-fashioned “wait three days” mandate, Gilbert could also be overestimating how much she likes him or how eager she is to extend her friendship to someone she doesn’t want to enter into a gray area with. Alternatively, Gilbert could also just be a really bad kisser. 

“I don’t know, Delly Belly. It might be too close of a call.” 

Her bottom lip quivers, hysterics impending. Gilbert deflects responsibility and says, “I’ll tell you what: why don’t you ask Miss Anne?” 

Delly blinks away the preliminary tears of her fit. “Why?” 

Disaster avoided. He runs a hand through his hair. “Because Miss Anne is the boss of me and if she says I can come, then I can come. But tell her to contact me and let me know what she thinks.” 

Delly plants a fat kiss on his face before running up to tell Mary, the smell of blueberry pancakes cooking another great incentive.

Gilbert finishes up the rest of his workout and only feels bad about manipulating his niece into doing his dirty work once over the course of the next half hour. 

-

**12:05 PM**

**[unknown number]** you know those guys who borrow babies to hit on women in the park?

 **[unknown number]** you’re maybe a step above them

 **[unknown]** by like a millimeter, JUST BARELY

 **[unknown number]** will never get over the way you sent in a five year old for reinforcements

 **[unknown number]** (this is anne btw, make sure you save it with an E)

 **[unknown number]** i told delly that you’ve been approved to chaperone our field trip next friday

 **[unknown number]** BUT NO FUNNY BUSINESS OKAY?

**[gilbert]** sorry she was crying and i totally panicked

 **[gilbert]** didn’t know how comfortable u would be with me coming along

 **[gilbert]** but also yes, i used delly to get you to text me back

_(_

_Contact saved as lady luck)_

**[lady luck]** well it worked

 **[lady luck]** and is so incredibly “i don’t know, go ask mom” of you, it’s insane

**[gilbert]** are we married in this scenario?

**[lady luck]** you are ridiculous

**[gilbert]** ridiculously CHARMING you mean? 

**[gilbert]** but since i am so charming and we are Just Friends

 **[gilbert]** did you want to grab a platonic coffee with me at some point this weekend?

 **[gilbert]** jokes aside, i have something i want to discuss with you in person

**[lady luck]** . . . 

**[lady luck]** this feels like a trap

**[gilbert]** only if you get caught

 **[gilbert]** does tomorrow work for you?

**[lady luck]** yes, i have some time before my art lessons at two.

**[gilbert]** i can pick you up, too. just send over an address

**[lady luck]** so you can leave behind a pair of earrings as an excuse to come back later? 

**[lady luck]** let’s just meet at the coffee shop by my studio at the corner of Piazzo and 10th :)

**[gilbert]** have it your way then

 **[gilbert]** i’ll just slip my earrings into your purse when you’re not looking

 **[gilbert]** also, quick question: ****did you save my number last night immediately after i gave it you at the bar? or did you carry around the slip of paper it was written on up until now?

**[lady luck]** GOODBYE GILBERT

 **[lady luck]** i will see you tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been playing The Last of Us 2 all weekend and so this update got pushed to the wayside, whoops! Please accept this meager update as a promise for more exciting things to come. I am also on twitter and tumblr @bbotanyclub if you want to see more of my extensive meme collection.


	5. of visions and reality

The game plan is this: he and Anne will sit down for coffee in a spot by the window, close enough to let the sunlight filter in and cast his profile in radiant clarity, but not to the point where she has to strain her eyes to see his dazzling smile. Anne will be nervous, continuously tucking strands of hair behind her ears while Gilbert watches, transfixed by the color in the afternoon glow. Sensing her apprehension, he will open the not-date by saying something witty and charming, and Anne will laugh because he is a perfect combination of both, and they spend the next hour making small talk, getting to know one another, and basking in the warmth of their low-simmering, mutual attraction. She will take a sip from her drink, maybe a caramel macchiato or soy latte with cream, foamy enough to leave residue and which Gilbert will clean with the back of his thumb because he’s impulsive and her lips entirely too enticing. And Anne will blush, prettily like she does everything else, checking her watch as an excuse to look away, only to realize the time and exclaim how she has to go. And then the climax: his predicament and proposition, offered up on a silver platter and garnished with his hopes and dreams.

_Whatever you’re comfortable with giving me, I’ll take._

From there, the scene fades to black because to picture anything beyond Anne’s answering smile is to torpedo his productivity for the rest of the day. Still, Gilbert allows himself a moment to turn over and grin wide into his pillow, the smell of sour beer and morning-after breath enough to motivate him to get up and get ready. He spends more time than is strictly necessary primping and preening in the mirror, but worth it for the reflection staring back when he’s done. 

Gilbert knows, in a vague sort of way, that people find him handsome, and has never had any reason to doubt that perception over the years. Mostly, he chalks it up to being a tall hockey player, which alone overshadows any of his less than Michelangelic features, scars from errant pucks lining his face and the strain of a busy job schedule taking its toll beneath his eyes. But for once, Gilbert allows himself a sense of overinflated pride; chanting words of affirmation as a pump-up in anticipation of seeing Anne. His hair remains, as always, a mop of dark curls he exercises little control over, but is slicked back in a way that is almost manageable this time. He even takes care in picking out an outfit beyond the usual t-shirt and jeans, somewhat stylish in a sweater Mary had gifted him last Christmas. 

He makes one last stop before leaving out the door, and finds Delly sitting in the living room watching Saturday morning cartoons.

She is just a little brown face peeking out from beneath a mound of blankets and pillows, as is the usual go of things on the weekend where his niece is content to laze around if her iPad and toys are within reach. Occasionally, Mary will lure her outside with sidewalk chalk or ice cream dates at the parlor down the street, but for the most part Delly enjoys YouTube videos and playing make-believe with her dolls. She pays Gilbert almost no mind when he sinks down into the spot next to her on the couch, eyes trained on Doc Mcstuffins but utters a quiet, “Morning!” at least. There is a plate of Nutella toast on the coffee table untouched, which Gilbert tears into and feeds to Delly before her mom notices and reprimands. 

“And how is my favorite lady today?” he asks in an unsubtle attempt to butter her up. Delphine, still five and only a few years removed from being able to clock Gilbert’s heavy-handedness for what it is, remains blissfully unaware; chews carefully on her breakfast and offers up a noncommittal “Fine.” It’ll be another episode or two before Delly is fully awake and so in this liminal space, Gilbert senses an opportunity.

He cranes his head looking for any signs of Bash or Mary, making sure they are in other parts of the house out of earshot, before daring to ask. “What kind of person is Miss Anne?”

At this, Delly snaps her attention from the screen to Gilbert’s face, narrowing her eyes in a way that is entirely reminiscent of Mary. “What does that mean?”

“Like, what’s her favorite candy or color? Does she like flowers or books?” He tears off another piece of toast and pops into her mouth, trying to ignore how juvenile his questions suddenly sound. “I’ve just been seeing her around a lot lately and think we ought to be friends. Especially after she got me such a great gift—it would be unfair if I didn’t get her one as well.”

“That makes sense.” Delly pushes herself from out beneath her blankets, nodding sagely because the statement speaks to her developing sense of justice. One day, she’ll grow up and recognize how Uncle Gilbert took advantage of her innocence to put the moves on her poor, unsuspecting teacher, and not just once but repeatedly all the way. Gilbert almost feels guilty for it, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.

“So? What’ve you got?” 

Delly taps her nose thoughtfully, gathering together all of her intel. “Miss Anne likes yellow and painting and that book about jars (she has a big poster of it behind her desk)! And tea that smells like candles, Scooby Doo snacks except the red ones, and also the number thirteen because she thinks it isn’t nice to decimate—descriptate—”

“Discriminate?” he supplies. 

“Discriminate! Miss Anne doesn’t think it’s nice to discriminate just because people think 13 brings bad luck and how hotels don’t have a 13 button in the elevator sometimes. It made me sad. But Miss Anne says that 13 is pitiful because it’s tough to follow 12, and so she loves it even harder to make up for everybody else who doesn’t. And she asked me to love 13, too, because she thinks the more pitiful something is, the more you have to love it. But I already told her that seven-three is my favorite number because that’s your number Uncle Gil!”

Delly’s eyes are bright, growing increasingly more animated throughout her retelling, and with pockets of food in her cheeks because she got too excited to swallow. Gilbert can only laugh and ruffles the top of her head gently, endeared by how Delly can’t pronounce 73 or count up to it, but considers it her favorite number anyway. He also finds endearing this new insight on Anne and the careful thought with which his redhead assigns the most inconsequential of opinions. Cute and sweet and giving credence to the butterflies already in his stomach, crashing around in anticipation of their not-date. 

“Anything else?” Gilbert prompts, taking a look at his watch. 

Delly skews her lips to the side in thought before eventually shaking her head. “I can’t remember anymore.” 

“That’s alright. You were helpful anyway.” 

Because now he knows Anne will take pity on the unlucky. 

-

Already, his plan has gone astray when Gilbert ducks outside to discover the looming rainstorm on the horizon, dark clouds gathering like a leather-jacketed biker gang in the movies. Droplets are beginning to leak down into the atmosphere, hitting his cheek with almost clockwork regularity when the heavens open up and start spitting spouts. Gilbert barely makes it inside his car without getting completely soaked through while the windshield wipers struggle to keep up with the torrent, even at the highest setting as ineffectual as smoke. He worries that the weather is enough to warrant a cancellation from Anne, habitually looking down at his screen every thirty seconds during the entire drive to the coffee shop. 

He has to circle the block thrice to find parking, most people wary of braving the elements and choosing to wait out the storm instead. Gilbert considers doing the same, suffused in the warmth of his heated car seat and watching the windows fog up, drawing loops and curves and stick figures in skates onto the surface of the glass. Before his phone chimes and a text from Anne proclaiming “on my way!” appears and lights the proverbial fire under his butt. Gilbert cuts the engine and looks mournfully outside, unprepared without an umbrella but thankfully only a handful of steps away from the entrance of Ancora; takes a deep breath and charges ahead. 

The store is moderately busy for a Saturday afternoon, mostly stragglers and writers getting their coffee fix and writing moody poetry in the corner by the outlets. Gilbert shakes out the damp from his hair while scanning the area for a table, of which there are predictably few in the prime locations he was planning on. Although he does appreciate the rustic ambiance of it all, complete with exposed brick walls and glass tabletops protecting postcards and ticket stubs and old letters underneath; hanging light bulbs diffusing the gloom with an inviting, amber glow. 

He eventually settles at a table attached to a bench along the wall, discreetly checking his reflection in the napkin dispenser before shooting off a quick message relaying his location. From there, it is just a waiting game for Anne to walk through the door. 

Gilbert is a bundle of nerves despite having gone on plenty of first dates in his lifetime. It is the _second_ date that he has issues with, namely procuring them, considering his busy schedule and short attention span as obstacles. He either doesn’t have the time or the interest to make time, and so potential relationships fizzle and actual ones fail, quickly and quietly, if only because he was probably absent when they burned. Something about Anne though compels him to try, to put in the effort and not mess everything up. Outside of being the spark to jumpstart up his career, Gilbert finds it mostly impossible to ignore even the tiniest of details about Anne.

Ironic, because he almost doesn’t notice when she drops into the seat across from him.

“Lost in thought?” she grins, grabbing a few napkins to dry off the moisture from her braids. Anne looks more man overboard than mermaid, soaked to the bone in the spots where her umbrella did not reach, but still cheery and bright in her sunshine yellow galoshes. The sweater she reveals beneath her raincoat is a similar shade, but one of many colors present on the paint-splattered overalls Anne is sporting over top. Briefly, he wonders if she keeps Hersey kisses in the front pocket of these ones, as well.

“Just thinking about you,” he answers, almost smoothly if it weren’t for the fact that Gilbert’s voice breaks higher on _you_ . Like he is a teenager going through _puberty_. 

He clears his throat. “Hi Anne.” 

She nods, amused. “Gilbert.”

He doesn’t know how to recover from this—did not calculate the quiet confidence she radiates that somehow has a negative correlation to his own. 

He falters in the face of Anne’s self-assuredness. 

“Shall we make small talk about the weather? Or maybe grab our drinks?” She watches his mouth flutter open and shut, at a loss for words staring at the fullness of her lips. 

“Drinks,” is his monosyllabic response, but at least that comes out even given the fact that his heart is lodged fully inside of his throat. Gilbert slides out from the bench seat at the table, thankful he doesn’t trip over his own two feet and heads carefully to the counter. Anne follows closely behind, boots squeaking against the terrazzo floors in signal of how if Gilbert were to suddenly stop, she would most definitely bump up against him. He thinks he feels her body heat creeping up but keeps a steady pace, stares resolutely at the drink menu overhead as the cursive lettering jumbles together and takes Gilbert longer than usual to decipher. 

Anne steps up to the cash register first, orders an iced Americano and strawberry tart “For here” because she’s a regular at the store. She moves to take out her wallet, but Gilbert stops her by adding, “Make that two Americanos. And I’ll pay, since I practically forced you out.” 

She looks like she wants to argue, but is a moot point when the barista apologizes and rejects Gilbert’s proffered platinum credit card. “Sorry, we’re a cash-only establishment” they inform him while pointing to the sticker affixed to the back of the register and to the glass on the door. Their smile is just a little bit scared, as if they’d been yelled at for pointing out this very fact before. Gilbert scrambles to produce paper money from the depths of his pockets, but comes up empty except for a dime and some blue-colored lint. Assessing the situation, Anne slides the cashier a crisp, $20 dollar bill, but grabs the dime from his hand so they don’t have to break a dollar. 

“You can get it next time,” she assures him, kindly, but Gilbert is still mortified. Not because she paid, but because he was so vocal about paying in the first place.

“Next time implies that you’re already thinking about a second not-date,” he mumbles, flustered but hopeful. Gilbert slinks toward the pick-up counter, determined to at least carry the tray when their order is ready.

The tiniest crack appears in her armor when Anne fusses nervously with a braid, embarrassed to be caught overeager, and abruptly clears her throat. “Because we’re Friends,” she finishes with a capital F, plucking straws from the holder in anticipation of their drinks. Anne recovers smoothly when she glances up at him from beneath a pair of fluttery, copper lashes, blinking slowly as if daring him to disagree. She only wins when Gilbert looks away, feeling impulsive enough to do something dumb like leaning in for a kiss. 

His affliction thankfully wears off by the time they make it back to the table, after Gilbert decides to scrap his game plan altogether and simply go with the flow since the universe is conspiring against him and Anne subverts his every expectation. She takes a sip of her Americano, flat and brown, without spilling a drop or otherwise needing any assistance in cleaning up. Gilbert sighs and accepts his fate, dejectedly gulps down his own and chews moodily on ice.

“You said you had something you needed to discuss?” Anne prompts, once again filling in the void. She has all the patience of a kindergarten teacher talking to a particularly sullen child. Gilbert sucks it up because now is not the time to throw in the towel.

“I was hoping to build up to this, but I guess there’s not really a smooth way to start.” 

“Uh oh. Should I be nervous?” 

He takes a deep breath. “How closely do you follow hockey? Or, rather, my career?” 

“Is this some kind of test?” 

“I’m being serious, Anne.” 

She regards him curiously with blue-gray eyes, taking pity once she senses the edge of panic to his tone. “I know you’ve been . . .” she fishes for a word that will cushion the blow, “. . . struggling this season. Even though the team overall has been doing well in the standings.” 

Gilbert scoffs. “That’s a nice way to sugarcoat the fact that I’ve been blowing chunks on ice.”

“Sorry, but is this what you wanted to talk about?” Anne is, understandably, confused. In retrospect, he should have spent more time this morning rehearsing his speech rather than fantasizing about a perfect date that will never come to pass. 

“Last night, I called you Lady Luck for a reason.” In a drunken stupor, yes. But he meant it all the same.

Anne wrinkles her nose adorably at the thought. “Is this about your experiment or other? Because I thought that was just a come-on.” 

“Oh it totally was. Or rather,” he course-corrects, “it wasn’t _just_ a come-on.”

She pushes aside her strawberry scone, bursting with too many questions to be hampered by chewing. “And what does this have to do with hockey?” Anne wipes her sticky fingers and crumbs against the sides of her thigh, never once looking away from Gilbert’s somber expression.

“Everything,” he admits, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening in. What he’s about to say sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears. “Being with you somehow makes me play better hockey.” 

Silence. For a while.

Anne is processing this information.

And then—

Laughter.

She actually snorts at one point, sandwiched in between half-hiccups, half-giggles. Throws both hands over her mouth after it happens, as if in shock that she could produce such a sound, and only sets her off even harder to the extent that Anne’s squeezing tears from her eyes. It also goes on for long enough to effectively hurt his feelings. 

Gilbert funnels the rest of the ice into his mouth, if only to give him something to chew on while waiting for Anne to finish up. Which she does, seconds later, but not before giving herself a new set of abs. 

“Okay, I’m done.”

He sounds only a little bitter when he asks, “You’re sure? 

Mentally, Gilbert knows that she’s probably giving him a pinch on the cheek for being so petulant and cute and exactly like a child. “I don’t know how else you expected me to react after dropping a line like that.” 

“I know it sounds ridiculous and definitely like a line, but I’ve figured out the reason why these last few games have felt so different.”

Anne is sceptical. “And it’s something to do with me?”

“It’s _everything_ to do with you.” He scoots in close and leans in over the table even closer. “Just think about it, Anne. It can’t be a coincidence that from the moment I met you, my game has improved. Think of the timeline, starting at the beginning of this week. You whack me over the head on Monday and I get an assist. Tuesday, I don’t see you and suck all over again. Thursday, I pick up Delly and guess what? We route the Bruins. And now, who knows what would happen if we weren’t scheduled off for the weekend? I meant it at Kit’s when I said I had already gathered evidence. I’m not approaching you with this theory like it’s some shot in the dark.” 

“Is this theory the only reason you approached me at all?” Anne looks at him directly in the eyes, quiet but brave, and does not waver in her pursuit of the truth. Despite the fact that her voice sounds small and she looks mere seconds away from deflating into her seat, Anne remains firm and waits for a response.

Gilbert steels himself and figures that now is the time for honesty. To reveal to Anne as much as he’s already relayed to his friends. “No, I pretty much liked you since the moment we met. Maybe even before, when all I knew of you was your red hair and the floral tattoo on your back, the way you talk with your hands, and how Delly tells me I lack imagination. She loves you, by the way. Practically tells me every day. And the way to my heart has always been through family. Before I even met you, you were already halfway there. But all that aside, and you can take this as a line, you are _definitely_ my type, Anne. I would have approached you regardless.” 

She blushes when he’s done, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. “So what exactly does it entail? Being your good luck charm, that is.” Anne tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, just as he’d envisioned this morning when the world was bright.

He senses an opening. The one thing that will go according to plan. 

Gilbert clears his throat. Tells her, “ _Whatever you’re comfortable with giving me, I’ll take._

And waits for her answering smile, for the scene to not fade to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly realizing how hard it is to write Shirbert without their established friendship and having them meet and fall in love for the first time in a way that feels organic/in-character. Which I did not achieve here and will conveniently hand-wave over with the explanation that in every universe, Gilbert is whipped from the start and also MOM PUT ME IN CHARGE. 
> 
> Anyways, it’s just fluff, smut, and shenanigans from here on out :) 


	6. of hockey games and "i told you so"s

As willing as Anne is to go along with this “charade”, she still doesn’t fully believe him despite the fact that Gilbert so carefully lays out the facts of the case both on Saturday at the coffee shop and in every subsequent conversation since.

“And you’re sure this isn’t a funny coincidence or some sort of confirmation bias in your head?” Anne asks over the phone for what feels like the hundredth time during the course of that same back and forth. Her voice is hollow-sounding and tinny driving through a tunnel on her way to the arena, stuck in traffic at the intersection of rush hour and game night. Despite his nerves, he still smiles to hear Anne’s road rage and the colorful vocabulary she employs while outside of work, a creative endeavor to mash up every swear word known to man and a few he’s certain she made up.

Gilbert, meanwhile, paces back and forth in the hallway outside of the locker room, attracting curious stares from teammates and coaches as they begin filing in for warm-ups. All things considered, he has maybe ten more minutes before Coach Gillis notices his absence and Gilbert will have to answer to the older man’s wrath for not taking things more seriously given his already precarious situation. A fate worse than death considering Gilbert would literally rather die than be forced to explain to Coach Gillis that seeing Anne is tantamount to preparing for their game against the Sabres; especially when he already has trouble convincing Anne of the legitimacy of his theory and can already picture the ways he’ll be accused of thinking with his _other_ stick from the guys.

“I guess we’ll find out tonight then, won’t we?” he posits, dwelling on how this is the team’s last home game before a six game stretch on the road. Gilbert is breaking it up somewhat by turning around and flying back after tomorrow night’s match-up, but otherwise is looking at a solid week and a half without Anne by his side or accessible via driving. Not unless he’s willing to cross international borders and 3 out of the 5 Great Lakes, which he won’t lie and say he hasn’t considered it as a possibility.

This weekend was already hard enough when Anne decided to drop off the map after his initial proposition and further magnified when she is saddled with after school duties as he goes to pick up Delphine on Monday afternoon. He is swinging around towards the driver’s seat when he spots her jogging in from the far corner of the parking lot, fluorescent crossing guard vest somehow duller than the red of her hair. In his mind’s eye, Anne seems as wild and capricious as the other woodland sprites of her kind. “Long time no see,” he greets, but she doesn’t have time for pleasantries. Anne takes only fifteen breathless seconds to tell him “Hi” and that she would call him later that night.

Gilbert deflates, not expecting fireworks but something marginally more substantial than just a hello given that she was lost in the woods without cell signal for much of the weekend. But she more than makes up for it though when she FaceTimes him sometime after dinner, hair wet from the shower and curled up in cherry-patterned pajamas on her couch. They speak for hours, first about the proposal and then about nothing at all, until Anne has to call it quits around midnight and blinks at him sleepily goodnight. She doesn't so much hang up the call as she does fall gently asleep, leaving Gilbert to watch her drift for minutes before deciding what he’s doing is more creepy than cute at this stage in the relationship. He turns in for the night, but with a big smile on his face.

“So I park in reserved and then what?”

“Head upstairs. I let the ticket office know to expect you at will-call so you can just leave your name and they should give you the tickets to get into the Friends and Family section near center ice.” He glances up to see the back of Billy’s head slinking through the door, normally the last player to arrive and Gilbert’s cue to start wrapping up the call. He relays the rest of the plan as quickly as possible and hopes for the best. “I briefly thought about meeting you after the second period to up the pressure and prove that your luck has an effect on me by limiting myself to the third. But the Sabres are a good team and scrappy, so we’ll need as big a lead going into the final minutes as we can manage.”

“So I’m meeting you after the first?”

Gilbert nods even though she can’t see him on the other end of the line. “I’ve sent someone to grab you a couple minutes before the buzzer. I can meet you outside the locker room for as long as I’m able.”

“But what if your coach wants to talk strategy between periods or you’re pulled aside for an in-game interview? Should I just head back to my seat? I don’t think I want to be seen by anyone other than you.”

“Coach can spare me a couple minutes of privacy, I’m sure. Especially since rituals, to hockey players, are almost as important as stick skills and conditioning themselves. And if it means I play better against our division rivals, then nothing else matters in the end.”

“And when we meet? What should I do then?” Anne sounds nervous; not quite reluctant but definitely not sure of herself either. He hears her cut the engine as she pulls into an open spot, keys twisting out of the ignition and the locking mechanism of her car. Gilbert’s probably imagining it, but he feels some seismic shift in the air, his and her atoms vibrating in tandem trying to get on the same wavelength when they’re already in such close proximity.

Moody’s head pokes out then, sheer panic in his eyes trying to warn Gilbert that his absence has been noted. He holds up a finger, indicating for the goalie to stall while he finishes up his conversation with Anne. “It’s not so much something you do as much as it is who you are. So whatever you feel in the moment or thought that crosses your mind—I’m sure will be fine. Remember, _you’re_ doing _me_ the favor.”

“I thought I was doing Canada the favor?”

“As far as hockey’s concerned, we are one in the same.”

“And Sidney Crosby?”

“Yesterday’s news. Plus, I am _much_ cuter than Crosby so I deserve to be the face of our nation.”

“ _BLYTHE! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE! DID YOU FORGET WE HAVE A GAME TO PLAY TONIGHT?!_ ”

He winces at the sheer volume piercing straight through the locker room and reverberating around the hallway.

“I take it you have to go?” Anne deadpans, but he can sense the wry amusement in her tone. Coach Gillis could probably rouse the dead if he had half a mind to do it. Even at a whisper, everyone could hear the boon of voice during games, downing out the crowd noise and general chaos of it all.

“I’ll see you in forty,” Gilbert promises, hanging up the call and sprinting inside before he’s yanked from the starting line-up as penance. His heart hammers inside his chest all the while, body buzzing with an anticipation he feels down to the tips of his toes. From this point on, there is only one whole period standing between Gilbert, Anne, and glorious vindication.

Fortunately, Coach Gillis doesn't have the time to lay into him for suiting up as everyone else hits the ice, but doesn’t preclude Gilbert from being on the receiving end of a stink-eye up until puck drop at 8:00 PM. He takes the thirty seconds prior to face-off searching the stands for Anne instead of mentally preparing himself for the game, which doesn’t go unnoticed by his teammates, who probably contemplate checking him with sticks until Gilbert gets his act right. Aside from Charlie and Moody, he’s skating on figuratively thin ice with the rest of the team for the special treatment and grace he’s been gifted by upper management. This, despite being carried for the majority of the season with only a handful of goals and assists to his name.

Almost immediately, he spots Anne’s face poking out from the crowd, figure dwarfed beneath the hockey jersey he sent Delphine to school with that morning. He particularly likes the visual of his last name emblazoned on the space between her shoulder blades and how Anne lights up when their eyes connect across the ice. Gilbert can almost make out the pucker of her lips mouthing “Good luck out there!” as she tries to will it into existence, fists clenched and shaking from the effort of manifesting her powers. _It’s cute,_ he thinks, _how hard she is trying for something she’s not even fully sure she believes in._ Barring Delphine, Anne is probably the cutest person he’s ever met in general.

“Any day now, 73” someone on the Buffalo teams snarks, skating slow circles around him until an official puts a stop to it. Already, the Sabres’ center is in position to receive the face-off while everyone else is waiting on Gilbert, who seems to have momentarily lost track of everything around him. He blinks twice to clear his head, quietly slipping into his usual competitive mindset and feeling the energy of the rink around him, drawing on its momentum and channeling it as his own. Anne is a distraction of the very worst kind, but Gilbert is a professional at the end of the day.

He grips his stick and leans in, eyes trained on the puck as it drops and bounces twice on the ice in front of his face. There is a flurry of movement as both he and Rahl fight for possession, slashing at land and air trying to push the puck back onto their side of the ice. He ultimately loses the draw, but the first period begins and Gilbert starts flying, hip checks and quick pivots and trigger hands throwing shots on shots on goal. He doesn’t feel any different but is playing a lot cleaner, neutral but deliberate, like he’s biding his time. The Sabres go into this game overconfident in Gilbert’s loss of abilities, but ten minutes in and they're beginning to grow wary. Towards the latter half, every time he touches the puck, he is doubled-up and boxed out, puck being poached or tipped just out of reach before he can really start wheeling. It’s almost like old times, trying to rise above everybody’s best because that was all he ever dealt with—what his star power warranted.

Gilbert’s adrenaline starts pumping, blood pounding all the way up his ears. He bears down for a struggle against the boards, which turns out for naught when the buzzer rings and the first period comes to an end. The score is still tied 0-0 because as good as Gilbert is playing, it still isn’t enough to tip the scales.

Dazedly, he remembers how Anne is waiting for him and so hurries off the ice and down the tunnel, ripping off his helmet and gloves and tucking them underneath his armpits. He asked the stadium attendant earlier to leave her a few turns down from the locker room and for Charlie to claim Gilbert’s blowing up a single-stall bathroom somewhere after a bad order of fish. This will buy him a handful of minutes with Anne, which will have to suffice since he doubts he’ll be able to sneak away after the second period as well, and needs to make it count. The details on exactly how to do so is hazy and half-formed at best, and ultimately up to Anne since she is the keeper of the keys. But Gilbert won’t lie and say he doesn’t hope a kiss like the one they shared at Kit’s isn’t in the cards for tonight.

He runs a hand through his hair and rounds the last corner to Anne, who is leaning up against the wall and scuffing her feet on the ground. It is the most ( _normal? casual?_ ) he’s ever seen her dressed, denim skinny jeans beneath a too-large hockey jersey and her hair in twin braids twined with ribbons down her back. She doesn’t hear him approach until the very last step, when he’s standing right in front of her and she looks up in surprise.

“Anne,” he greets, dopey smile spreading against his best intentions to seem cool. But the confident version of Anne he met in the coffee shop takes a backseat to the one who is unsure of what to do, never before having been referred to as Lady Luck and whose responsibilities include reviving the career of Canada’s most promising hockey player. Still, she tries to project confidence, wobbly smile straightening out into a grin.

“You looked good out there,” she claims. _Better than usual_ is the unspoken provisional clause.

Gilbert shrugs. “Your presence had something to do with it, I’ll bet.”

“There’s that confirmation bias again.”

“Or your inability to admit that I’m right?” He quirks an eyebrow in her direction.

“I guess we’ll see then,” she echoes his words from before, tucking back loose strands of hair for something to do with her hands other than wringing them nervously in a circle. Anne’s gaze flits from feature to feature on his face, not sure what to rest on whether it be his chin, nose, eyes, or lips. Gilbert sneakily parts the latter to draw attention to his mouth and is pleased to see the hard swallow of Anne’s throat and the flattering shade of scarlet she flushes in response.

“Did you decide on how you want to approach this?” he asks, involuntarily leaning closer. There is a hopeful lilt to his voice that Gilbert doesn’t like, overeager and breathless like he always is around Anne.

She shakes her head, still indecisive and unclear as to her role. “I feel like I spent most of the first period wracking my brains and still came up with nothing.”

“Go with your first instinct then,” he suggests, unsure why Anne is making this more complicated than it has to be but still moves to reassure her. “I’m not holding any expectations of you, Anne. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do and can say no to anything that makes you uncomfortable. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it—I’ll take anything and everything you want to give me, big or small, physical or otherwise. The hockey gods don’t seem particularly picky and I’m gone for you no matter what. So don’t overthink it and just go with what feels right.”

Anne sighs as if this isn’t the response she was hoping for but has to make peace with. “I think I’m looking for more guidance. Some direction to go in instead of the sea of options I’ve been given.”

“I can’t tell you what you want,” he laughs, but Anne does not follow suit, contemplative for a moment.

Her gray-blue eyes turn steely as she thinks through her response, turning some phrase around and around on her tongue. When she whispers it quietly aloud, the meaning byasses his brain in favor of shooting straight for the groin. “No,” she seems to purrs, an unintentional seductress. “But you can tell me what _you_ want.”

He nearly chokes on his tongue. Has to clear this throat before he’s able to respond. “I want a lot of things, Anne.”

“Then make the first move. Show me what to do.” In this, she is earnest, wide-eyed and susceptible.

Gilbert considers it for a second: crowding her up against the wall and taking Anne right then and there, quickly and clumsily in the precious time they have left. Gilbert wouldn’t last very long with her anyway, keyed up as he is and practically begging for touch. He also can’t help the dirty direction of his thoughts, with Anne so suggestable and his body manufacturing testosterone by the boatload as a product of the game. Considering he was already giddy this morning packing away his old jersey, wondering whether or not Anne would be wearing a bra underneath, and giggling to himself at the thought of _indirectly_ touching her boobs? Taking _all_ of Anne right now would be an overload to his senses.

And secretly, he wonders if this isn’t somehow a test; an assessment to see if she could trust in Gilbert's intentions and that this isn’t all just some elaborate ruse to get into her pants. Not that withholding sex and taking a relationship slowly is inherently better than its counterpart, but Anne seems like the type of girl who wants to be savored at every stage of their relationship. So luckily (both literally and figuratively) Gilbert wants to do just that, even if his brain and other blood-hungry appendages aren't fully cooperating at the moment.

He takes three deep breaths and counts to three in his head—not long enough of a pause to cause Anne any embarrassment but gives him enough time to regain some slight semblance of composure.

“Are you sure?” Gilbert asks once he gets his heart rate to calm down.

Anne looks up at him beneath a pair of fluttery, gossamer lashes; opens her mouth and breathes out an airy ghost of a “Yes.”

He thinks he wants to kiss her; has wanted to do nothing less (and infinitely more) since the moment they met. But despite her blanket permission, Anne also seems skittish, wary albeit open to anything Gilbert has in mind. And the state of Gilbert’s mind is, to put it gently, a mess, so he has to force himself through a rather heady fog of lust and settle for her hands. Just holding Anne’s hands.

She seems surprised at first, but recovers quickly enough; flips their positiontioning so that she’s the one holding his hands instead. Anne tugs by the wrists to bring them gently to her lips, breathing her warmth into Gilbert’s slightly cupped grip. She blows on his fingers like she’s blowing on a pair of dice in some Las Vegas casino, right before the high roller throws down a game-determining hand. Snake eyes for the win and everything else spelling disaster.

“Is this enough?” she asks and he may or may not be imagining the look of disappointment on her face.

Gilbert can only shrug, loosening her hold to slip his sweaty gloves back on his hands. Anne helps him clip his helmet under his chin, eyes lingering on the butterfly sticker still pressed inconspicuously between his numbers.

“Is that-?”

“Yeah, it is.”

She smiles then, softer than he’s ever seen. Taps it once, as if to reinforce the luck.

Gilbert has maybe four more minutes to go before the game starts again, three of which it’ll take to make his way back out onto the ice. Coach is probably furious, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not when his reluctance to go is almost tangible and hangs off of his body like a second skin beneath the uni. Eventually, Gilbert turns to leave, heart feeling heavy only to be pleasantly stopped in his tracks, fingers wrapping around his left bicep with force.

He feels her before he sees her, a slight pressure being applied to his lips; the slide of her tongue and the taste of Anne’s balm.

She kisses him for good luck, eating up an additional thirty seconds of his time and the remaining oxygen in his lungs. Tells him “Fortune favors the bold” before pushing him away.

Gilbert stumbles, dazed, practically the entire walk back. He barely hears the profanities Coach Gillis yells as he takes his position at center ice. The puck drops soon after and the second period begins. Barely five seconds in, something clicks in Gilbert’s brain. The same way it clicked the first time Anne came into view.

He flies down the ice, the physical embodiment of domination. Slapshot on slapshot, saucer passes down the middle. A good bodycheck downstream sends the puck flying his way, connecting to Gilbert’s stick like it’s attached by a string. He practically breaks a defender’s ankles on his way down the line, takes two shots on goal before it finally connects on the third: a tricky wraparound miracle that sends him careening into the net. He’ll score two more goals—his first hat trick of the year—before the Sabres tie it up, scoring three goals in the third.

No matter.

Anne blows him a kiss and they eek out a win. A shootout to end it.

Gilbert comes up triumphant in the end.

He can’t wait to see Anne.

The “I told you so” awaiting her is a heavy burden to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't really write slow burns i just don't know what i'm doing most of the time


	7. of crushing and crushes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this is absolute dog shit i will fix it in the morning but if it is and you've already read it, no you didn't ♡
> 
> cw: some smut at the end but nothing too wild

Most of the team elects to go home for the night given tomorrow’s early morning departure, but the buzz in the locker room is hard to turn off and crackles between everyone bouncing back and forth after the scrum. Some of the guys linger around in good spirits, blasting music and waiting for finalized plans on the post-game celebration, most likely at Hardy’s because they are nothing if not consistent. Meanwhile, Gilbert’s back is on fire from the multiple poundings he gets from teammates with well wishes and congratulatory slaps, trying to beg off given his prior arrangements with Anne. She and Ruby are waiting in the parking garage to go out for drinks, with Moody and Charlie tagging along because they love any excuse to spend Gilbert’s money. He corners and asks the two of them to behave, which has as much success as a directive given in a completely foreign language, being that Moody has a penchant for embarrassing not only himself but the people around him and Charlie is a wild card on all days ending in Y.

“So Kit’s again?” the latter asks, slinging an arm around his shoulder on their way through the tunnels. Gilbert matches his pace, in too good of a mood to throw off the embrace despite the fact that Charlie is wearing enough Axe body spray to singe every nose hair in the province.

“Yeah, I think so. We’re not planning on anything too wild since Anne still has to go to work in the morning.”

“Nice of her to come out then,” Moody says, running a hand through his hair which has been slicked back and styled with gel he nicked from Paul Anderson’s locker. The brunette looks simultaneously peaked and yet somehow more alive, walking with a bounce in his step while leading a couple paces ahead. “Ruby, too.” He adds it as an afterthought but the tips of his ears give Moody away, deep red like the stain of pomegranates and wine.

Charlie scoffs, switching targets from Gilbert to the other but instead of a friendly grip, he determinedly holds Moody in a headlock for the purposes of mussing up his hair. “M&M, don’t you know better than to crush on the Coach’s daughter?” There is a struggle as Moody tries to break free of the hold and Charlie drags him along without breaking either of their strides.

He denies it vehemently, of course. “I don’t have a crush!”

“Do too.”

“Do not!”

“Do too.”

“DO NOT”

“Do—”

“Shut up,” Gilbert instructs with a sense of finality to his tone. His friends are like overgrown children only infinitely worse behaved, rendering him trained, certified, and ready to be an uncle since Delly materializes as just a twinkle in Mary’s eye. Still though, he feels inclined to agree. “Crush or not, you should be careful with Ruby. She seems like the type who could just as easily crush you without even trying.”

“I’m saying,” Charlie nods sagely, big-headed whenever Gilbert takes his side. Gilbert very rarely takes either of their sides, seeing as how they are both two sides on an idiot coin. But in this case, there is truth to the phrase about a broken clock being right twice a day.

Their goalie friend pouts. “Aren’t you concerned that I could be the one to hurt her?”

Gilbert and Charlie share a look and in unison, chime, “No.”

He’s much too pure to do anything of the sort. Especially when Moody’s dating history is a landmine of false starts and broken hearts, having the ability to spot pucks coming from a mile away but not women who are wrong for him in every single regard.

Moody straightens out after Charlie releases him, but not before one last noogie from him and Gilbert combined.

He doesn’t bother trying to smooth out the aftermath on his head and replies, “It’s not a crush. I just think she’s a little bit cute.”

“A little bit?”

Moody relents. “Fine. A lot bit cute.”

They round the corner to the parking garage and already, he can feel the beginning pinpricks of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Anne, of sharing drinks together at Kit’s and just a handful more hours. A small but insistent corner of his brain wonders if she hasn’t already reapplied whatever flavor lip balm she was wearing after she kissed him in the hallway. Or if Anne ultimately decides against it, since she plans on kissing him again.

For obvious reasons, Gilbert hopes that it’s the latter.

Anne waves when she sees them, jersey sleeve slipping all the way down to her elbows. Gilbert grins and jogs the last few yards to her car, a beat-up yellow hatchback packed to the brim with boxes and art supplies and every knick knack under the sun. Ruby is similarly attired in one of her dad’s vintage jerseys and without the makeup and false lashes, Gilbert can clearly see the familial resemblance; something in the slope of her nose and expressive blue eyes giving her away as a Gillis. She rarely attends games and Coach doesn’t make it a habit of bringing his daughters around the team, which explains why Gilbert didn’t recognize her that night at Kit’s when they met.

“Hi Ruby,” Moody greets, so soft that he makes a show of clearing his throat afterwards. “Hi Anne.”

The redhead smiles and expertly twirls her keyring around and around her finger, swirls of silver and gold that jangle and echo throughout the quickly emptying garage. “Good win tonight, boys. Now shall we get this show on the road?”

Charlie salutes her, _“Sir, yes, sir!”_ and makes a beeline for the front, claiming his long legs need the extra leg room in order to breathe and repose. Gilbert has to grab him by the collar and practically force the tall defenseman in the back, plopped behind Anne because she’s short enough that her seat is already decently pulled up. Ruby takes middle and Moody apologetically climbs in beside her, flushing at the sight of smooth, bare legs pressed along his own, and shifts his gaze resolutely out the window for fear of staring too long.

To a bystander, the whole ordeal has the distinct feel of a clown car accommodating three big hockey players in a game of human tetris. Once she ensures that everyone is (un)comfortably situated, Anne pulls smoothly out of her parking spot and into the long line of post-game traffic leaving the arena en masse.

“Any song requests?” she asks, fiddling with her radio and switching the audio mode over to bluetooth. Anne plugs in her phone and hands it over to Gilbert to compile the queue, two hands planted firmly on the steering wheel when she finishes setting up. He briefly gets a view of her home screen before the Spotify app loads, noting the scenic shot of a sunset with a small gable house in the back; two shadowy figures and a redhead in between—her family, he presumes, and her childhood home as well.

“Moody and Charlie are banned from playing music in the car so it’s up to you Ruby.”

She takes a moment to consider, pursing her lips in a way that draws Moody’s attention. “I liked whatever playlist you had on earlier, Anne. Did you compile it yourself?”

Gilbert thinks he sees Anne’s grip on the steering wheel tighten up. The question seems to have put her on edge. “Yeah, I did.”

“What’s it called? So I can pull it up.”

Anne coughs and mutters the answer under her breath. _“mondesnthirststs.”_

“Sorry what?”

She repeats it louder this time, enunciating every syllable like they’re five knives to the thigh. “Mondays and Thursdays.”

He glances quickly at the first few songs:

_Everything He Needs - Carly Rae Jepsen_

_Say My Name - Trove Stryke_

_Love On The Brain - Rihanna_

He feels elated scrolling through the playlist, not with any certainty but knowing enough to recognize them as love songs or songs that are tangential to love. And although it’s too early to regard what they have going for them as love—only the breathless, frenetic energy of a promising introduction—something soft still blooms in the pit of his stomach and works its way up through Gilbert’s chest, hooking deep and refusing to leave. He shuffles the playlist and looks over to Anne, blue-grey eyes trained on the road but he can make out the shy smile curling at the corner of her lips. He wants to say something, maybe a witty response or a compliment on her curation, but is too hyper aware of the peanut gallery sitting poised in the back.

“Intestinally,” Charlie speaks up to break the ice, when everyone in the car has fallen into an awkward silence and the song playing fades out into a quiet instrumental, “do you think my stomach could handle deep fried cheese curds tonight given that I am lactose intolerant?”

“Are you dumb?” Moody asks, his need to dunk on his best friend and sworn enemy stronger than whatever lingering sheepishness he has around Ruby. “What exactly do you think cheese curds are made of?”

“Well I read somewhere online that deep frying something automatically cancels out the lactose.”

“Don’t act like you know how to read,” Gilbert ribs. “You’re a hockey player for a reason, after all.”

Anne laughs and he wishes he could bottle up the sound. “Then what does that say about you?” she teases back without conviction. Charlie slaps the back of her seat in lieu of a high-five, leaning forward and resting his chin by the headrest so he can whisper in Anne’s ear.

“Anne, I think I love you. Let’s just forget about Gilly boy and have you be _my_ good luck charm forever.”

Gilbert turns around and puts a hand to Charlie’s forehead, shoving his teammate back and a safe distance away from Anne. It’s definitely a joke, but he’s not taking any chances.

“Unfortunately,” she replies, stopped at a red light and finally able to look Gilbert in the eyes. She smiles shyly as she reaches over to pat his cheek, an innocuous gesture that is somehow so much _More_ coming from Anne. The warmth of her fingers seeps through and lights his pulse and nerve endings on fire. “I’m rather fond of him already.”

They pull up to Kit’s not long afterwards, not as busy for a weeknight but a decent enough crowd that they don’t feel like everyone is watching them as they walk in and claim their seats.

Charlie ditches them almost immediately upon arrival, although he has the decency to stick around for one whole drink before going off to chase tail. A tall brunette makes eye contact with him for a beat too long from across the room and the way she’s sitting alone at the bar watching sports highlights is taken as an invitation to approach. Anne disagrees with the sentiment but doesn’t otherwise stop him, spending a moment to gauge the girl’s body language in an act of sisterhood and protection. Gilbert can tell by the way she tenses that Anne is ready and willing to drag Charlie out of there at a moment’s notice if the girl in question so much as _flinches_. But their friend must have more game than he’s given credit for because Charlie starts chatting her up without a hitch and the playful way she touches his biceps gives Anne enough of a sign to leave them well enough alone.

“Charlie’s doing well for himself,” she comments, relaxing into Gilbert’s side.

“He usually does.” There is only a tiny bit of bitterness to Moody’s voice as he sips his scotch.

They are all in the same corner booth as before, only there’s much more space this time with fewer bodies to accommodate. Still, it takes all of ten minutes to feel the press of Anne’s thigh beneath the table, which catches him by surprise considering how hyper aware he is of her presence yet oblivious to the micrometers she moves in order to end up so close without his notice. Gilbert orders a round and a pitcher of beer for the table before realizing that Anne is once again playing DD for the night, a glass of water in her hands. She waves off Gilbert’s offer to drive, but suggests they split a bottle of Coke in solidarity, asking the server for one straw between the two of them (ostensibly for environmental reasons) but becomes a detail he fixates on because of the sense of familiarity and domesticity it insinuates.

Ruby turns to look at the goalie, tipsy and teasing when she tips her empty glass of beer in his direction. “What about you Moody? How are you at picking up the ladies?”

Gilbert snorts, wondering to himself if he should play wingman or devil’s advocate in this situation. “Moody doesn’t pick up girls. _Girls_ pick up _Moody_.”

Her eyes widen, surprised. “So you’re Mr. Popular then? A different woman in every city, I’m assuming?”

Moody shakes his head and waves his hands, almost choking to get out the word, “No!” fast enough.

Gilbert clarifies the earlier statement on his poor friend’s behalf, a wingman to his core. “I meant it more in the sense that Moody doesn’t know how to flirt.”

“But it’s so easy!” Ruby exclaims, leaning forward just a little.

“Because you’re beautiful,” Moody mumbles into his drink, which could be misconstrued as a line if it were coming from anyone else. Ruby pinkens and they launch into a back and forth about the finer points of picking up, or more accurately she rants at him while Moody watches like she’s hanging the moon.

With what little space is left between them, Anne leans in the rest of the way in to whisper something in his ear. “So did you pick it up from Moody?”

He tilts his head, bemused, while looking down at her eyelashes and the tip of her freckled nose.

“Whatever the opposite of negging is, I guess. The sincerity of it all. Being so genuine and sweet, it takes you completely by surprise.”

“You mean, what you’re doing right now?”

Anne laughs, the vibration of it soft against every body part she’s touching. “I learnt it from the best.”

-

Charlie ends up going home with the brunette, tossing a wink to the table on his way out the door, but not before Gilbert points to his watch as a reminder that their flight leaves at 9:30 tomorrow morning. Not that Charlie makes it a habit to sleep over after a one-night stand, but is liable to oversleep his phone alarms _in general_.

Gilbert shakes his head and asks for the tab, slipping over his credit card before anyone else can try to claim it.

Anne is the only one paying attention to anything he’s doing. Moody and Ruby are in their own little world, having moved past the art of seduction and cycling through a bunch of different topics that draws Moody out his shell and gets Ruby going on many a starry-eyed tangent. They are not the volatile combustion of fire and passion, but a sweet, simmering pot that promises to eventually boil over. It feels tender, imagining how their future relationship will play out.

Gilbert wonders, to others, what he and Anne appear like from the outside as well.

After dropping off their friends (separately, despite the way Moody’s leg shakes the whole way to Ruby’s house), it is Gilbert’s stop up next and his leg does the same.

She pulls into his driveway, completely dark save for the automatic front porch light and the sheer glow of the moon casting everything in shadows. All of the windows are similarly blackened as the time draws closer to midnight and the LaCroixs have long gone to bed at this point, leaving the two of them to their own devices in parting ways until Friday.

“Calgary is a long way away,” Anne comments as she puts the car in park, unbuckling her seatbelt to turn and face Gilbert directly.

“Yes?” he agrees, following suit. He’s not entirely sure where she is trying to lead this conversation, but relishes the few extra minutes she’s permitted instead of going straight home to sleep.

“Are you worried about your luck not lasting through tomorrow? Or on your longer road trip after that?”

“I can make do with phone calls and FaceTime,” he thinks, but feels a sense of heaviness overcome him at the concern in Anne’s eyes. At how demanding he sounds right now, however unintentionally, treating her time as a given and not a gift. He knows he should apologize. “I’m sorry you’ve spent so much of today thinking about ways to help me through this ridiculous situation. This is 100% my problem and I was being selfish roping you into this in the first place. You aren’t responsible for me or hockey or anything like that.”

He is, for all intents and purposes, giving her an out.

Anne takes him in, silence stretching between them yet also pulling taut like a string. He doesn’t know what to hope for when there’s a tradeoff either way; when the options are 1) Anne walks away and he can rest knowing he’s absolved her from her strong sense of obligation and pity. Or 2) she stays and they continue stepping around the landmine and power imbalance that is how inextricably tied her favor is to his burgeoning career. It also can’t be easy, even for an imagination like Anne’s, to take as fact that she is somehow linked to the fortunes of a professional hockey player, his team, and their playoff chances alike. Not when the alternatives of coincidence or the placebo effect are much more viable to the logical mind.

He waits for what feels like an eternity for Anne to respond.

She clears her throat, half joking and vulnerable when she asks, “What is it about you that makes me want to _take_ responsibility then?”

The analog clock glowing green in the dimness declares it to be 12:13 AM.

“You should probably get going,” Anne says, although it doesn’t feel like a dismissal when her eyes pin him perfectly in place.

Gilbert nods, heart climbing and beating loudly inside his throat. “You’re probably right,” he says and still doesn’t actually move.

The tension and fragility of the moment feels insurmountable to him right then. As if one false move could throw and unravel everything undone, scattered ashes to the wind. Until Anne caves and asks, “Can I kiss you then? Just one more time for the road?”

Gilbert doesn’t so much agree as he throws his entire body in her direction.

It starts off slow since Anne is awkwardly leaning over the center console with her hands clutching desperately to his shoulders, fingers eventually winding their way to the back of his head and pulling at the curls to better position his lips. As usual, Gilbert lets her set the tempo, equally as excited as the first time they kissed but with much better technique, more in control of his actions when Anne’s lips feel as vast as the ocean compared to the fleeting oasis of before. But of their own lustful accord, his hands trail from Anne’s waist to the round of her ass, pulling until she swings over and ends up comfortably in his lap. Anne gropes around for the seat adjuster, hesitant to break off the kiss trying to locate the handle, but has to when she ends up fumbling around for close to a minute and the rub of her neck against the car roof is starting to chafe.

Gilbert feels himself lowering, staring up at Anne and her blown out pupils ripping out ribbons and the elastics from her intricately braided hair, red locks spreading out in waves overtop her shoulders and tickling his nose from where a few strands dangle down. She takes a moment to readjust, shifting her weight around so that she’s straddling Gilbert on her knees, hot center pressed to his growing erection, and he pretty much loses his mind when Anne recaptures his lips and directs his hands beneath her jersey. She shivers from the press of his cold hands to her chest, trailing up her rib cage and _oh God_ —

His hunch from earlier is correct: Anne _isn’t_ wearing a bra. Her breasts are completely unconstrained outside of the way Gilbert is cupping them now, thumbing over the peaks and kneading until Anne _whines_ and grinds down. She swallows his moan only to return one of her own.

_“Shit.”_

_“Mmm-”_

_“Ah.”_

_“Right there!”_

He is nothing except a pile of sounds and sensations and whatever Anne wishes to mold out of him in this moment, putty in her hands and between her masterful thighs. It is amazing, given two layers of denim and the tight squeeze of her car, the pleasure they are able to derive from sheer lust, a little friction, and determination alone. Gilbert can hear his blood pounding steadily in his ears and is surprised that there’s enough of it left that hasn’t already fled south to his dick.

“Gil,” she breathes, “I’m gonna—”

He peppers clumsy kisses all up and down her collarbone, trying to match Anne’s pace bucking his hips up into her own, until her breathing hitches and she trembles, keening softly in his arms. Anne closes her eyes when she comes, chin tipped upwards and euphoric in her peak. The sight of it sends Gilbert into his own ecstasy, knowing he played a hand in the dreamy expression on Anne’s face when he empties into his jeans.

They spend two minutes suspended in a limbo of bliss, Anne curled up on top of him while their sweat and commingled fluids dry. He desperately needs another shower, but feels too comfortable to move and content to exist anywhere where Anne exists, too.

“Was that ok?” Gilbert asks, when she’s quiet for a stretch and it makes him feel nervous that she is potentially stewing in regret.

Anne lifts her head, just enough to look him in the eye, before pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, and then another just in case. The reassurance he needs that he isn’t somehow crossing a line. “Better than ok. Phenomenal, even"

From the beginning, he tells Anne that he will take whatever crumbs she is willing to give, whatever she’s comfortable with, nothing more-nothing less. But if dry humping in the front seat of her car is capable of making him feel like _this_ , Gilbert’s scared of how he’ll react if and when she gives him her _all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why continue writing when em (the_lazy_eye) exposed my entire plot (or lack thereof) in this comment: "I want them to bow chika all the way to the Stanley cup"


	8. of zoo dates and holy ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *distracts you from the fact that this update is like two months overdue*

Time flies by in the blink of an eye. Gilbert leaves the airport only to return a couple hours later, with afternoon practice and a hockey game taking place somewhere in between. The Crowns win, but only just, and he scores two goals in total (one for every base he and Anne obliterate in their post-midnight exploration, dry humping like drunken teenagers in the dark). Gilbert is running on fumes by the time his flight lands in Charlottetown after four, too doped up on adrenaline to sleep for the first leg of the trip, until his body catches up to him somewhere between Saskatchewan and Quebec.

He falls, face-first, into bed and doesn’t bother changing out of his clothes, tired enough to outfit-repeat in the morning if it wasn’t for Delly catapulting her small body atop of his own in lieu of an alarm.

“Wake up! Wake up!” she chirps excitedly in his ear. “We’re going to the zoo! We’re going to see the aminals!”

“You mean animals,” he corrects her, but Delly ignores him, as is custom. His words are muffled by the barrier of his pillow anyway.

“Mommy says it’s going to be cold today so remember to wear a jacket. I’m going to wear my red one so I think you should wear your red one, too.”

He turns his head to free his mouth from the confines of his bedding, the clearer with which to talk and express his surprise. “You want to match?”

Delly nods.

“You haven’t wanted to do that in a while. Not since last summer, at least.” He remembers the days when she used to cling to Gilbert endlessly, hanging off his every word and limb, and trailing after him like a duckling that’s imprinted on her favorite person in the world. Back before the strain of his disappointing sophomore season catches up to him and Gilbert becomes a more detached presence in her life, a disappointing side effect that Delly handles with as much grace and good humor as is befitting of Mary’s daughter. Agreeing to chaperone this field trip is probably the most time they’ve spent together in _months_ , and the fact that Gilbert had agreed with ulterior motives makes him feel less than stellar, and Jiminy Cricket yells profanities in his ear.

So Gilbert resolves to do better, to _be_ better, and also buy her one of everything from the overpriced gift shop at the zoo, as a treat.

“For in case you get lost. So people will know that you’re mine if we’re wearing the same color.”

“In case _I_ get lost?” he parrots, dumbfounded.

“Because you’re too busy giving Miss Anne your Eyes.” She has the wherewithal to wink.

Gilbert sits up, not sure why getting called out by a five year old flusters him so much, but feels the heat rising to the tips of his ears nonetheless. His niece sits criss-cross applesauce, staring at him with an expression much too sage and knowing for such little time and life experience on Earth. Delly grins, jagged baby teeth glinting with barely-suppressed humor. It is in these moments that she reminds him the most of Bash.

“Does it upset you that I give Miss Anne,” he swallows, sheepish not only for the act but because of Delly’s name for it as well, “my Eyes?”

Gilbert watches carefully as she contemplates the question, ready and prepared to pull back at the first sign of Delly’s discomfort. Above all, Gilbert wants to put his family first. Although he wishes he doesn't have to make that call at all.

“Why would I be upset?” she asks, head tilting in a show utter confusion.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, searching briefly for a reason. “Maybe you want to set some sort of boundary between your home life and school—a clean separation. I wouldn’t blame you, if that were the case.”

Delly peers at him quizzically. “What’s a boundary?”

“Well a boundary is . . . Hmmm.” He draws an invisible line between their bodies; an indentation that repoofs itself against the cotton layers of his sheets while remaining visible in his brain. “One side is for home and one side is for school. A boundary is something that keeps all the different places apart.”

“But I like home _and_ school. I don’t want to choose.”

“It’s not really choosing, but rather bouncing back and forth.” Gilbert uses two fingers pointed downwards in an approximation of legs, and hops from side to side to further illustrate his point.

Delly watches for a moment, considering, before stilling the movements with a soft, tiny hand. Her tone is curious yet decisive in equal measure, having entertained Gilbert’s scenario but reaching a different conclusion on her own. Airily, she posits that, “If there weren’t any sides, then I could just stay still. And that way, I can have both you and Miss Anne at the same time!”

All things considered, it is galaxy level logic for anyone at any age, much less a five year old in her preoperational stage of cognitive development. Gilbert wonders if he could train her to have this same conversation with Anne.

“And you wouldn’t mind?” he confirms, just in case his intent isn’t clear. “If the two of us were together?”

“Would that mean I could see Miss Anne every day of the week?”

He goes to respond when Mary’s disembodied voice floats downstairs to inform them that they’ll have to eat breakfast on the go if they’re to make it to school on time. As it is, they’re cutting it pretty close given morning rush hour and the basic hygiene he has to maintain, but Gilbert’s still thankful for the few extra minutes of sleep. It serves as a perfect supplement to the giddy excitement he has towards seeing Anne again so soon.

“Just for the record,” he pulls Delly into a hug, lifting her up and off of the bed so that her toes dangle and she’s suspended, mid-air. His niece erupts into giggles, arms wrapping around Gilbert’s neck as he deposits her at the foot of the stairs. “You would never lose me. Not for anything in the world. It seems as though you’re stuck with me for life, little girl.”

-

Gilbert is running on proverbial fumes, but is surprised to see Anne in an equally exhausted state, still visible despite her overly cheery smile. It falters a little when he and Delly arrive, the corner of her lips wobbling slightly as a blush creeps up the side of her cream, mock-neck knit. But Anne recovers quickly enough, greeting them with a fluttery wave as she checks their name off on her clipboard and directs them onto the bus.

“Good morning Miss Anne!”

“Right back at you, Delphine.” She raises her eyes to meet his own and there is something decisive in the blue-grey glint of her orbs. “Mr. Blythe.”

He returns the address with a nod, one hand raising automatically to scratch the back of his neck. Outside of a text wishing him good luck before his game, the two of them hadn’t really spoken since their post-Kit’s fumble, when some veritable cocktail of alcohol, hormones, and the promise of parting drove Gilbert half-insane and the press of Anne’s body against his own took him all the way there.

He had asked her then, _was that okay_? and she had answered _Better than_ without addressing the second layer of meaning behind the question. The sex was the more obvious implication, but Gilbert was also searching for silent permission to take their relationship just that little bit further. To dissolve those boundaries as easily as he dissolved beneath her hands.

The aftermath is awkward but at least mercifully quick. Anne fixes her hair and straightens out the creases of her jersey from where it was bunched above Gilbert’s greedy exploration. His hands still itch to continue mapping out her form, but remain rigid and curled up into fists should certain impulses arise.

When the silence between them stretches so thin, it could snap, Gilbert finally speaks up. “Well, um, I guess I’ll see you on Friday then?” Despite his intentions, the words sound entirely like a dismissal.

Anne looks up, hurt, and the expression moves him bestow another kiss in recompense. It lasts less than a second, but his lips still tingle when they part.

It seems to mollify her for the moment. “Friday,” she repeats, and then allows Gilbert to shimmy out from beneath her to head back inside.

“Text me when you’ve made it home.”

He waits by the doorway for Anne to climb into the driver’s seat and drive away, giving one final wave in the hopes that she’s looking in the rearview and is able to see him in the dark. When he makes it inside, Gilbert feels lighter than he has all season, some invisible weight lifted and buoys him all throughout the next two days.

But now, standing in front of Anne for the first time since then, he is suddenly very unsure of himself and where exactly they stand. Especially when he also can’t interpret the steely look in her eyes.

“Do you like our matching colors?” Delly squawks to break up the tension. She presents their red, checkered jackets with a flourish and all the confidence of a miniature runway model. “I told Uncle Gil to wear red so that people will know that we’re yours!”

“Sorry what?” Anne’s nose scrunches adorably in confusion.

“You’re red and we’re red so that means we’re together.”

“In case we get lost,” Gilbert explains. “To make it obvious that we’re yours.” As though it isn’t obvious enough when he goes around with the words _Property of Miss Anne_ plastered across his face.

She smiles, less cheery than before but infinitely more sincere. There is a playful lilt to her voice when she asks, “Are you, then? Mine?”

Gilbert has to refrain from telling her, “ _Since the day we first met”_ because now is not the time or place to express that sentiment aloud. Still, there is something in the way Anne softens that lets him know that she’d heard him all the same.

He and Delly clamber onto the bus, which is already mostly full since they are some of the last people to arrive. A lot of the other adults and chaperones are seated up front and mingling amongst themselves, flashes of recognition in their eyes when he passes by with Delly in tow. She is steering from behind, pushing her uncle towards an unclaimed spot in the middle, before slipping around to climb in and claim the window position. She stares straight ahead as Gilbert slides in besides, his larger frame blocking her off from her friend Emily across the aisle.

The small blonde grins and says hello, which Gilbert politely returns. Delly merely crosses her arms and ignores the girl’s greeting in obvious displeasure.

“What’s up?” he leans in close and butts his head against her own. It is their secret, sophisticated way of letting the other know that they’re being a butthead. “Did you two have a fight?”

Delly traces the permanent marker graffiti on the back of the seat in front of her, not wanting to make eye contact with Gilbert in case she accidentally makes contact with Emily as well. “We’re not fighting,” she replies in a perfect imitation of her Mary. “We’re just not talking right now.”

He glances back over to Emily, who looks crestfallen and turns to pout to the boy seated beside her. “And why is it that?”

“Because we got married last week and then she married Jordan the next day! And when I told her she could only be married to one of us, she said that’s not fair because she likes the two of us the same! Even though I like Emily the most!”

He can only shake his head in disbelief. The complicated inner lives of kindergarteners is something incredible to behold.

Delly is happy enough to chatter on for the rest of the bus ride about other topics that come to mind. Dutifully, Gilbert pays attention, save for the handful of times Anne makes her way up and down the aisle to monitor students and address any questions or concerns. The second and third time she passes by, her fingers squeeze lightly around Gilbert’s bicep, before continuing to grip seat backs as she shuffles up to the front. His heart stutters both times and he has to ask Delly to repeat herself because he loses the thread of the conversation.

Eventually, they pull into the parking lot of the Magnetic Hill Zoo. There is a clamor of excitement as students press faces to windows in order to see the squat, green-roofed structure that serves the welcome center and gift shop. Anne clears her throat into the overhead microphone and gives everyone a few seconds to settle down so she can give further instructions. She goes over the logistics of chaperone groups, rules and expectations, and the scavenger hunt worksheet she’s printed to help guide their explorations for the day.

“Everyone will be meeting back in front of the gift shop at 3 PM sharp. Remind me again, kiddos, what time are we meeting up?”

There are scattered bellows of “3 PM SHARP!” with Gilbert’s own voice in the mix.

Anne follows him off the bus and hands him a folder with the worksheets and names of everyone he’s responsible for overseeing. When she doesn’t make any moves to leave, however, he raises an eyebrow in surprise.

She subtly points towards her main concern.

“I worry about Elise,” Anne whispers, eyes cast over towards the small Laotian girl with a curtain of inky black hair. Side-swept bangs keep both halves of her oval face hidden, obscured save for a pert nose in the center and the inner corners of dark, intelligent-looking eyes. She stands off to the side of the circle forming around Delly, holding court, and watches without any semblance of longing to join in on the fun. Anne continues, “She keeps to herself and hasn’t made very many friends. I sometimes suspect some of the kids are bullying her, but can never pin down which ones, and whenever I ask her about it after school, she’s somehow able to avoid giving me an answer altogether. It’s rather frustrating.”

“I can imagine,” he murmurs, wanting to squeeze Anne’s hand in sympathy but not wanting to cross a line when she’s technically at work. “Is there anything I should do differently or keep an eye out for?”

Anne shakes her head. “Just be yourself and I’m sure you’ll win her over in no time.”

“Are you flirting with me right now?” His brow arches even higher.

She rolls her eyes. “I was originally going to split my time between all of the different groups, but I may stick closer to yours, just in case.”

“Because you want to spend time with me?”

“Because her mom dropped her off this morning with a warning that Elise was in a particularly bad mood.”

Anne motions for him to get moving and join the rest of the group. He follows along, waving to catch Delly’s attention as he asks, “And that warrants the extra attention?”

“Elise’s temper tantrums tend to be violent and _long_.” Crushing concern marrs Anne’s beautiful, dryad features. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, which have turned slightly pink from the cold, to match the color on her cute, button nose. “She doesn’t get over things as quickly as other kids and will take it out on the people around her if her temper’s not managed correctly.”

Gilbert fishes a beanie from his jacket pocket and, after tucking his folder beneath his armpits to free up both hands, manages to wrestle the orange Crowns knit knit onto her head. “Miss Anne to the rescue,” he jokes, while Anne sputters and belatedly dodges his advance.

“Gilbert! This shade of orange is atrocious on me!” Nevermind the fact that the act is suspiciously domestic for a chaperone-teacher duo, although the other chaperones have long since departed with their groups in search of the first clue on their list.

“There’s some green in there to balance it out. Matter of fact, you kind of look like a carrot.” And then, as if realizing his poorly thought-out analogy, amends the statement with, “A cute one, of course.”

She whacks him with a clipboard, but on purpose this time. _“Fuck off.”_

“ _Tsk tsk._ Watch your language, Carrots. We are in the presence of children.”

She whacks him again for good measure. Gilbert knows better than to avoid the barragem but still quietly wonders if she’ll kiss the bruises better when they get back home.

He introduces himself to the group, although it appears Delly has done a sufficient job in hyping him up, because five pairs of eyes (minus Elise’s) stare up in utter amazement and bombard him with questions in a manner more chaotic than any post-game scrum he’s ever had. Eventually, Anne has to put a stop to their badgering so the hockey player can get a word in edgewise, and it takes another five minutes before the group is settled enough to make it past the welcome area of the zoo.

“We’ll work our way backwards on the scavenger hunt,” he proposes. “Since it looks like everyone else is going in order and it’ll be a bit crowded with everyone there at the same time.”

Elise tugs gently at his sleeve and Gilbert has to get down on one knee in order to hear her voice above the din. “Are we still going to see the lions?”

“Of course. It’ll be the first stop after lunch, I pinky promise.”

He flashes her a dazzling smile and is surprised to see Elise respond accordingly to the gesture. He had expected her to storm off in a huff and cry until she got her way, based off of Anne’s description of her more stormy disposition.

They collectively make their way to the reptile house for some momentary reprieve from the cold. It would be another hour or so before the sun hit its zenith and the temperature climbed. Still, he almost prefers the morning chill to the sticky humidity inside of the exhibit. None of the other kids seem to mind the heat as they rush from display to display, knowing better than to wander too far from his eyeline, and would wait patiently for Gilbert to catch up before zooming off again. All the while, Elise remains a permanent fixture by his side, quietly brooding but would break from her reverie every now and again to recite some fact about the animal she was observing.

“How do you know so much about reptiles?” Gilbert asks, after she informs him that a crocodile can go up to half a year without eating, if necessary.

Elise pulls a massive tome from her backpack, accounting for more than half of her body weight at least, but a burden she carries with little signs of a struggle. “I checked this out from the library. I was excited about going to the zoo. Miss Anne thought it would be nice if I could share fun facts about the animals with my friends.”

“And why haven’t you?”

She casts her dark, clever eyes in his direction. “Aren’t you my friend, Mr. Blythe?”

“I don’t want to be selfish and keep them all to myself. I’m sure the other kids would like to hear your fun facts as well, Elise.”

“Maybe,” she replies cryptically, but makes no moves to do anything of the sort. She only shuffles right towards the next glass case, flipping to the section about Rhinoceros Viper in her book to read up on and study.

Anne is a few meters ahead, preoccupied with Delly and a few of the other kids monopolizing the majority of her time, and casts a worried glance back at Gilbert, who gives her a reassuring thumbs-up in response. Secretly and despite knowing better, he had hoped this field trip would serve as a pseudo sort of date in place of the real thing, but when it comes to dealing with kids, there can be nothing taken for granted.

The closest they get to being alone is during their bathroom break before lunch and Anne sidles up to him by the water fountains, shoulder to shoulder, only to be dragged away before she can even say a word. One of the girls is apparently throwing up after snacking on nothing but cotton candy all day and Delly runs out of the restroom, a bit wild around the eyes to shuttle Anne to the appropriate stall.

“Emergency! Emergency!” She grabs her teacher by the hand, stealing her away without acknowledging Gilbert’s presence.

He sighs while watching them both disappear around the corner, the visible fog of his breath carrying away a small quantity of his disappointment. This morning had turned out to be a wash and this afternoon not promising to be that much better, seeing as how Elise continues to be glued to his side and Anne brings up the possibility of floating between groups again now that she knows he has the situation under control.

“I can’t play favorites,” she informs him as they are walking towards the picnic area with food trays in hand. He’d generously offered to pay only for Anne to remind him that these meals were included in the price of the field tree fee. He tells her _“it’s the thought that counts”_ as she rolls her eyes, but definitely in an affectionate sort of way.

Cheekily, Gilbert asks, “Am I a top contender for that position?”

“If anything, you’re my problem child.” She moves to hip-check him, but Gilbert is too sturdy a figure for the force to do anything but unbalance Anne in return. Stumbling, the dishes on her food tray slide dangerously close to spilling, but Gilbert is quick enough to steady her with a free hand curling firm around her elbow. He is just as swift to drop his grip when she’s returned to equilibrium, but allows his fingers to brush gently against her own.

“I hear those are the students that teachers inadvertently love the most.”

As they approach the group, Gilbert is pulled and whirlwind into a circle of moms who beckon him over to their table. Upon seeing Anne, they reluctantly extend an offer for her to join them as well, but basic math proves there to be not enough room, which puts the onus on Anne to reject the invitation with grace. Gilbert tries to beg off, claiming that Delly has already saved him a seat, only to turn and find that her table is equally as full. There is nothing quite like looking for somewhere to sit during lunch that transports Gilbert back to being the new kid in school, moving in with his first host family in Toronto at the age of 15.

“I’ll see you later, I guess.” He tries to keep the pout from his face. He takes a seat and watches as Anne is immediately swarmed by a group of students.

“So how are you and Delly related?” one of the mothers with the stereotypical “can I speak to your manager” haircut asks without preamble. Judging from the lack of surprise and the rapt fascination with which they await his response, Gilbert surmises that they’ve secretly had this conversation before, and just want confirmation of their own personal conclusions.

He takes a deep swig of water. “I’m technically a family friend, but I think of Delly as my niece. I’ve been living with the LaCroixs for the last two years.”

In an attempt to be brief, Gilbert comes off as forthright, and unwittingly opens a window for the questions to come pouring in without the semblance of reprieve. Not wanting to shut anyone down for the sake of maintaining the peace (and for Delly, who is friends and classmates with their kids), Gilbert remains a good sport and fields the worst of their queries with a forced, lip-heavy smile. Even when the questions slip into wildly inappropriate territory and he wants to crawl out of his own skin as an escape, Gilbert endures.

He draws the line when one of the moms questions whether Moody’s lower extremities are as meaty as they look on-screen, but just as he’s about to give her a piece of his mind, Gilbert’s cellphone rings and shatters the heightened tension.

“Excuse me,” he says with a clipped, stiff tone. At least half of the table has the decency to look contrite, while the half that is responsible for most of his discomfort is completely unabashed.

He is surprised, upon answering the call, that it is Anne’s voice on the other line.

“Did I just save you from committing murder or did I badly misinterprate the air of barely suppressed rage that was floating all around you?”

Gilbert parks himself beneath one of the Maple trees that would normally provide shade cover in the sweltering summers, but are beginning to change colors and shed leaves now that it is approaching late October. He glances around in search of Anne, wondering from which corner she had been observing him and had the foresight to stage a rescue attempt. “No, you’re correct. Although, I don’t know if I’d necessarily resort to murder right off the bat.”

“That’s true,” her voice crackles over the line, but he can still make out the hint of mischief in her tone. “You haven’t had the privilege of sitting in on one of their parent-teacher conferences and so are probably not even getting the brunt of their obnoxiousness.”

“Well one of them did ask me how big Moody’s dick was.”

“I bet it’s the same one that asked me if I’d ever watched porn.”

He sputters, pacing back and forth because now _he’s_ wondering if Anne has ever watched porn, and he’s a little worked up about it as a result. “In what context would that even come up?”

“The same could be asked of Moody’s dick, I suppose.”

Gilbert runs a hand through his hair, doing one last sweep in search of his beloved redhead. “You know, I didn’t think there was a quota for the amount of times my goalie’s genitals could be brought up in casual conversation, but my limit appears to be three.”

They both laugh at the joke before falling into a lull. Unable to spot her anywhere, Gilbert asks, “Where are you right now?”

“Truthfully? Hiding behind the vending machines so I can get in a couple rounds of Words with Friends. I called you right before I slipped away. And just in time, it appears?”

Instinctively, Gilbert finds himself walking and expertly weaving between tables in order to get to where Anne is. They’ve spent all day orbiting each other but never quite crossing paths, to the point that he aches for her and just one single second alone. Even if it’s only to look upon her face, Gilbert would pay any exorbitant demand. To spend any amount of time together, uninterrupted, would be worth the price tag in the end.

True to form, he finds her by the vending machines, but tucked into the nook leading towards the service entrance of the kitchens. At this time of day, there’s almost no foot traffic in or out. Everyone is hunkered down and in the middle of the lunch rush. He can hear her breathing into the line, but is more preoccupied with watching tree branches swayin the wind, and mapping the journey of fallen leaves as they are whisked swiftly away. Gilbert hangs up the call and tucks his phone into his pocket, contemplating an embrace before eventually chickening out. He’s still very unsure about what grounds they’ve decided to settle on and the landscape as he approaches feels particularly shaky underfoot.

“Marco . . .”

Anne turns around with a grin. “Polo!”

She makes no moves to close the gap as Gilbert lingers closer to the soda machine than to Anne by the alcove. “How’s Elise?”

“Better, knowing that we’re going to the lions next. She’s sitting with Delly right now and I told her to share some fun facts with the group to get them excited about the exhibit.”

Anne breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks for being so great with her all morning. I told you she’d like you!”

“She really is a sweetheart,” Gilbert compliments sincerely. “Just shy, is all.”

A wistful expression steals across Anne’s face. “She reminds me a lot of myself, when I was younger.”

Which comes as a surprise to Gilbert, who has only ever seen the effervescent version of Anne. The one who dresses in the brightest colors of the rainbow, with the floral tattoo curling around the base of her neck, and a smile so sunny it warms him to his core. Someone who demands to be adored in every exhalation of her breath. “I can’t imagine that being true.”

“It’s hard to not only know but show your true personality when you’re shuttled in and out of foster homes for most of your life. In those situations, all you can really know is strength—how much and how long you’re able to withstand before the system breaks you completely. I didn’t truly come into my own until I hit double-digits, at least.”

Gilbert leans closer, enraptured by her honesty and the rawness of her confession. “What changed?” he asks, not knowing why his tone has taken on such a ragged edge. He is strangely desperate to know what cut through to the core of Anne Shirley-Curthbert. If maybe he could somehow recretate the same.

“I was adopted. Given my own room and three meals a day. A steady education. The love and stability I had never been afforded.” There is a faraway look in her eyes as she reminiscences on the past. If there was ever a time to embrace her, now would be the chance. “Matthew and Marilla changed my life, you know. Or gave me a brand new one in general. I was barely a person before they grew and tendered me into a real one.”

Gilbert draws her into his arms, not to provide comfort, but because she might appreciate the human connection. She feels so incredibly soft to the touch, solid and yet somehow liable to break. “Still, I think I’m grateful for the Anne Shirley of before. The one who survived for long enough to live. No, not just survived, but _endured_. To grow up and become the woman before me now. I’m thankful for her.”

Tenderly, he presses a kiss to her temple, but it isn’t enough. Anne tilts her head up and captures his lips in one frantic, greedy motion. He feels her fingers twisting into the curls on his head, shifting his positioning to better slot against her mouth. Gilbert’s heart practically jackrabbits out of his chest, tentatively tasting the remnants of the ginger ale on her tongue. Lifting onto her tiptoes, Anne magically deepens the kiss, and his arms wrap around her waist in support of defying gravity. To keep her locked against him forever. He nibbles lightly at her lip, which has the intended effect of driving her absolutely wild, and she redoubles her efforts to kiss Gilbert into an early grave and leaving the zoo with one less chaperone.

Gilbert feels the rush of blood pounding against his ears, and then nothing, as all of it begins to travel south in preparation for a repeat of that blessed Wednesday night. But before things start to really get out of hand, Gilbert takes a tentative step back, and punches down the part of himself that is absolutely screeching at the sudden loss of _Anne_.

For her part, Delly’s teacher looks dazed and _extremely_ well-kissed. Then, as if remembering herself, flushes red and nervously clears her throat a couple times.

“Let’s talk about boundaries,” Gilbert says, but with conviction this time. He needs to know when Anne is crossing one and if it’s okay to follow behind. “Have we crossed one just now? Or the other night?”

If possible, Anne flushes even deeper, because she’s been the only one who’s drawn them only to obliterate them again and again. “I think I’ve been sending you mixed signals.”

“You think?”

She only refrains from punching his shoulder because she is technically in the wrong. “Yes, I have 100% been sending you mixed signals. But only because I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Or, rather, never as strongly as I do for you.”

“And what is it?” he breathes, still close enough to see the way it ruffles her lashes and disappears into the cold. “Use your words Anne. What is it you feel about me?”

She lifts to press another kiss to his lips, stubborn, before he pushes back with two hands against her shoulder blades. “If you must know, I have a big, fat crush on you and it’s absolutely mortifying to be feeling this way at my big, grown age. I swear my heart flutters just seeing your face on TV or hearing your voice calling my name. I’ve been doodling your name in the margins of my lesson plans for _weeks_. The other day, I daydreamed that you asked me to go _steady_! Like we were in some late 80’s rom-com and I was a more redheaded Molly Ringwald.”

“Question: in this scenario, was I Duckie or Blane?”

“Obviously Blane.” Anne rolls her blue-grey eyes. “But that’s besides the point as I gave you this big, holier than thou spiel about our relationship being a gray area, only to immediately put up blinders as I tear through every line I’ve ever drawn. And it doesn’t help that you’ve been so kind and understanding and despite every mixed signal, still worry about putting my comfort, consent, and autonomy at the front of every interaction. It isn’t fair that I’m this walking-talking mess and you’ve only been steady as a rock, steering with a compass that only ever points True North. What the fuck is that about? I don’t understand.”

He chuckles at the half-hearted accusation, basking in the force of Anne’s feelings and eager to untangle them together. Gilbert wants to do everything together. “I’ve liked you since the moment I met you, Anne-girl. That much has always been true. The only difference is that my hang-ups revolve almost entirely around you, and yours mostly stems from wanting to put Delphine first.”

“Mission failed. It’s like she doesn’t exist, every time you’re around.”

“If that were true, I would’ve won you over that first night at Kit’s. I would’ve begged you to take whatever you wanted on Wednesday night in the car. I have been selfish every step of the way, while you have only ever wanted to be a good teacher to your kids. And you’ll still be a good teacher, whether we’re dating or not. And if it makes you feel any better, Delly approves of us together.”

“You asked your niece for permission?”

“Yeah, so now it’s your turn to ask Bash. I can’t imagine he’d allow you to court me without his approval, first and foremost.

This time, she doesn’t hold back from punching him square in the shoulder. “You’re being ridiculous, Mr. Blythe.”

“Does this mean you’ll agree to go steady with me now?”

“Well that depends. Do you like _like_ me Gilbert?”

“Obviously, but does that make you my girlfriend now? Check yes or no.”

And so on and so forth as they bask in the warmth of a newly-established relationship, banter growing silliest as the amount of time they’ve been missing starts getting suspicious to the circle of moms waiting on Gilbert’s return. Before parting, she kisses the living daylights out of him one again, for no single reason other than that she wants to and can.

Without a doubt, Gilbert knows that he is the luckiest son of a gun to have ever walked this Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote all of this update in one single sitting and it's so incredibly unedited, i almost don't want to post. but this 6K+ chapter is a sincere FUCK YOU to writer's block and my funky mental health recently, so obviously i'm not going to let something like the basic spelling and grammar skills i do not possess HOLD ME BACK. apologies if any of this is the hot garbage my mean brain always convinces me it is.
> 
> thanks for your patience. i am not entirely back on my bullshit, but goddamn i am trying.


End file.
